


Vendetta

by Bibabybi



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Attempted Murder, Blood and Violence, Dead Georgie Denbrough, Emotional Manipulation, Everyone cries a lot, Guns, Human Pennywise (IT), Kidnapping, Knives, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Suicide, Murder, Panic Attacks, Pedophilia, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak if you squint, Self Harm, Tags to be updated as chapters update, Violence, this is really dark i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 55,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23022538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibabybi/pseuds/Bibabybi
Summary: All Bill really wants is a shoulder to cry on.  All he really wants is for someone to tell him it’s going to be alright.  Robert has never let him down in that regard.-Bill hasn't been the same since his brother's disappearance, and the only man that seems to understand him is Robert "Bob" Gray.  It doesn't matter that he's three times his age, Bill craves that understanding.  He craves for someone to look him in the eye and tell him that everything's going to be okay.  Unfortunately, there's always a price to pay, and Georgie was only the beginning.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 43
Kudos: 73





	1. The Disappearance Of Georgie Denbrough

Georgie Denbrough has been missing for half a year when Robert Gray shows up. He just waltzes into Bill’s life, with a charming smile and sympathetic eyes that tell stories Bill can’t quite understand yet. If Bill stares into them long enough, he thinks he can start to see pieces of some of those stories. And they chill him to the bone.

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what exactly the stories are (and a part of him doesn’t know if he will ever want to), but Bill doesn’t need to know to feel the chill that runs down his back.

Robert Gray’s eyes are haunting.

And yet the rest of him is friendly enough, so Bill tries to not let himself worry over his eyes too much. Instead he focuses on the warmth of Robert’s hand on his shoulder, on the way he smiles so wide it nearly splits his face in half, on the kind words he utters when Bill comes to him sobbing at odd hours of the day.

His friends don’t see it that way.

They see Robert and they see, to put it plainly, a creep who jumped at the opportunity to spend time with a bunch of fifteen year olds. And they have no qualms about letting Bill know about their true feelings.

_“You’re gonna get fucking murdered, Bill,”_ Eddie had said a few days after Robert’s first appearance. _“You’re gonna get kidnapped and raped and then you’re gonna get murdered, is that what you want? They’re gonna find your body in the basement of some creepy old house or, or, or deep in the woods or, like, in his bedroom. And your skin’s gonna be all gross and decaying. Or, fuck, what if he’s like some crazy cannibal? They’re gonna find you with chunks of flesh missing and an eyeball in a martini glass and he’ll be making some kind of crazy, fucked up, dinner using your insides - Fuck, Bill! Is that what you want?”_

Bill thinks Eddie has quite the imagination.

All Bill really wants is a shoulder to cry on. All he really wants is for someone to tell him it’s going to be alright. Robert has never let him down in that regard.

_“He’s a guh-good guy,”_ Bill had told Eddie. _“You jj-juh-just have to give him a chance.”_

Eddie had merely scoffed and told Bill he would never, ever let Robert Gray get close enough to do that.

Bill thinks that’s a tad bit unfair, but Eddie refuses to budge.

Sometimes, when Bill looks into Robert’s eyes, he can see why. But those moments are fleeting. They’re only a few seconds of gut twisting, vomit inducing anxiety before he remembers who he’s talking to and he’s overrun with unshakeable guilt.

In the weeks since, his friends still haven’t come around. But they will eventually, Bill’s sure of it.

As of currently, they’re crowded into the clubhouse. Richie and Eddie are curled up together in the hammock, lost in their own little world. Bev is smoking by the open trapdoor. Ben and Mike have combined efforts to put various posters and photos on the walls. And Bill is sitting in the far corner, softly murmuring his latest story and trying very hard not to think about the fact that Stan is sitting so close he might as well be on his lap.

Stan doesn’t say a word throughout the story. Instead he listens attentively, like Bill’s thoughts are worth paying attention to. It makes Bill’s heart melt just a little bit.

When he finishes, he puts the notebook down gently, and turns to stare curiously at Stan. “So?”

“I didn’t like the ending,” is all Stan says.

“That’s ww-wh-what you said about my last one!” Bill exclaims.

“It’s too sad,” Stan says. “Sean never gets to go back home. All his friends and family are looking for him, and he’s stuck trapped in his own head forever.”

“Robert luh-luh-liked it.”

Stan scoffs loudly. “Do I look like Robert to you?”

This, admittedly, does earn a chuckle from Bill.

“Just because it’s ss-suh-sad doesn’t mean that it’s not good.”

“But Sean deserves to be happy, don’t you think?”

Bill considers this for a moment. Then, “Nope!” he says, popping the P.

“Why not?” Stan asks, lurching backwards to stare at him incredulously.

“Because I mmm-muh-made him,” Bill says. “And, therefore, I can dd-do whatever I want with him.”

Stan hums softly because, technically, this is true, but, “Why don’t you use your power for good?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“That rr-ruh-rarely happens in real life,” Bill murmurs.

It’s so much sadder than their previous conversation, and much more serious. Bill almost feels bad saying it. But it’s true. People are rarely happy in real life, and if there is someone in the sky looking out for them, they sure as hell aren’t changing their ending to please their friend. Even if said friend is cute as a button.

“I guess so,” whispers Stan. “But don’t you wish it did?”

“Yeah.” Bill does. All the time. “Sometimes.”

Stan shuffles closer, tucking his head between Bill’s shoulder and neck. Bill tries to ignore the heat that sprouts there, spilling through his veins and out to the rest of his body, making him tingly all over. But he can’t. As soon as it gets his attention, he’s gone. The clubhouse disappears, replaced by Stan and the warmth that fills his veins.

“I think you’re gonna be alright,” Stan says. “Whoever’s writing your ending is looking out for you.”

Bill fiddles nervously with the corner of his notebook. “Robert thinks we mmm-muh-might still be able to find jj-juh-juh-Georgie.”

“I...Yeah. Maybe.”

Stan looks so defeated. Like he knows Bill won’t listen to whatever he has to say. Which, in all honesty, he probably wouldn’t. But that doesn’t make Bill feel any less guilty.

“Are you still looking for him?” Stan asks. But he knows the answer.

“Yeah,” Bill says. “Robert usually huh-helps me.”

“That’s nice of him.”

“Mhm. We’re supposed to go ll-luh-look down by the barrens later today.”

“ _Oh_.”

Bill can feel Stan stiffen beside him. He’s got his legs pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped securely around his knees, and Bill’s sure that, if he were wearing shorts, his fingernails would be digging into his skin, judging by how tightly he’s gripping his knees.

“Robert?” The intrusion, while Bill loves all his friends, is unwelcomed. These moments with Stan feel intimate. Special. Richie doesn’t get to interrupt just because he overhears something he doesn’t like. “You’re still talking to that freak?” He’s swinging slowly in the hammock, a worn out comic in one hand, Eddie wrapped securely in the other. But he’s not paying attention to either. Instead he’s got his gaze fixed on Bill, his glasses making his infuriated eyes seem 12x bigger.

Bill rolls his eyes. “He’s not that bad, Rich.”

“Not that bad?” Richie says. “Eds, did you hear that? Robert’s not that bad! Not at all! We better shout this from the rooftops. Hey, Losers! Robert’s not that bad!”

“Sh-Sh-Shut up, Richie,” Bill groans.

“We’re just worried,” Bev says. She flicks some of the cigarette ash onto the ground. “You can’t blame us for that.”

It’s true, he can’t, but, “Yuh-You don’t have anything to be worried about.”

Bev hums softly. She clearly doesn’t believe him. It infuriates Bill a little bit, but he wills those emotions away. These are his friends, of course they would be worried.

Stan must sense another quarrell coming on, he’s got a fifth sense for that kind of stuff, because he gently taps Bill’s knee and murmurs, “Write me another story.”

And who is Bill to argue?

-

Bill doesn’t like the barrens. He had been so hopeful when he first started searching here, so sure he would find clues. Subconsciously he had hoped he would find Georgie just sitting there, patiently waiting for his big brother to find him.

But he never did.

And now the barrens represent that failure, that loss. He doesn't know if he’ll ever be able to step foot in them again without remembering the brother who didn’t come home. And yet he’s still down here constantly, still searching for possible clues. He still never finds any.

“This is useless,” Bill hisses. “Hh-huh-he’s not down here. He’s not-” He sniffs harshly. He can already feel the tears stinging at his eyes. “This is sss-stuh-stupid. Dad’s ruh-ruh-right, he’s-” Bill grits his teeth. He can’t afford to think like that. “We need to look somewhere else. If he ww-wuh-was here, he’s not anymore.”

Robert glances at him curiously. “Where do you want to look?”

“I-” Bill doesn’t have an answer. Because he’s looked, quite literally, everywhere. He’s searched every inch of this god forsaken town, then searched it again, and again, and again. There’s nowhere else to look. “Maybe he got ll-luh-lost. In the woods. Maybe we jj-juh-just have to look harder.”

It’s pathetic, really.

On some level, Bill knows Georgie isn’t in the woods. He knows he isn’t anywhere. No seven year old can survive for half a year on their own. And yet he can’t admit it, even to himself.

“We’ve checked the woods, kid,” Robert says with a heavy sigh.

“But - But -” Oh, _nononono_ , Robert’s giving up on him too. The one person who didn’t judge him, and now he thinks he’s gone crazy as well. Not that Bill can really blame him. Sometimes he wonders about his own sanity. “We haven’t looked that dd-deep.” Bill knows he sounds desperate, but he can’t stop it. “Maybe - Maybe we’ll ff-fuh-find something.” Before Robert can respond, because Bill _knows_ that look in his eye, knows he won’t be getting the answer he wants, he hurriedly adds, “I can do something for you.”

That catches Robert’s attention. It always does.

He hesitates, and for a moment Bill worries his answer isn’t going to change. But then he says, “Alright, get in the truck,” and Bill doesn’t think he’s heard a better suggestion in all of his life.

He practically runs to the truck. Not that it matters. He still has to wait for Robert to open it, because he has, like, a million locks on the damned thing.

Robert unlocks it with a chuckle, like Bill’s a child who just asked the sugariest cereal at the grocery store.

“Okay,” Bill says, as soon as they’re both seated. “I think we sh-sh-should check past the town limits. We huh-haven’t looked-”

“Bill.” Robert chuckles again. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Bill’s heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach. “Nn-Nuh-Now?”

Robert looks at him pointedly. “There won’t be time afterwards.”

Which, Bill supposes is true. Once he starts looking, he doesn’t stop until he can’t see two feet in front of him. Even then, oftentimes he has to be dragged away.

But he hates this part. It makes him feel weird, like there’s dirt trapped under his skin that he can’t dig out. Being able to wait a few more hours would be nice. Nevertheless, a deal’s a deal.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Yuh-Yeah, okay. Just-” Maneuvering himself into the right position is, admittedly, harder than it looks. The truck is cramped and by the time Bill manages to find a semi-comfortable position, Robert’s already growing impatient.

Bill’s barely managed to get Robert’s belt open before calloused fingers are grasping at his hair, pushing him down, down, down until air has become a precious resource. Luckily, Bill doesn’t have to do too much work this time. This happens sometimes, if Robert gets too rowdy too fast. He’ll take control of Bill’s actions, ignoring if he gags or if his face turns purple, forcing him to go as fast or as slow as he wants.

As much as Bill hates having to work hard at something that is, admittedly, disgusting - not that he’d ever dare say that to Robert’s face - having Robert control him is always so much worse. Bill’s sure Robert wouldn’t ever hurt him, but it’s clear in moments like these who has the control. If something went wrong, Bill wouldn’t be able to get away. He can’t move an inch.

But he shouldn’t be worrying about that. Because nothing’s going to go wrong. Besides, Robert’s doing so much for him, this is the least he could do.

It seems to take forever before Robert’s finished. But once he is, Bill jumps back, cheeks still puffed wide like a hamster. This is the worst part, he thinks. And the longer he waits, the worse it is, but he can’t get himself to take that last fucking step.

“Good?” Robert purrs. Bill nods, even though he wishes the ground would swallow him whole, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do? “You look so pretty like this.” Bill wants to cry. Which is a stupid fucking reaction. Who cries after - after - after _that_? “C’mon.” Robert’s got a hand on his cheek, thumb gently brushing the bone. “I know you can do it.” And, God, Bill just wants him to stop talking. So he does it. He swallows as quickly as he can, fighting his instinct to gag it all back up. “Good boy.”

Bill turns quickly, forcing Robert’s hand to slip off his face. “Can ww-wuh-we go nuh-now?” he asks. He stares straight ahead as Robert starts the car. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s still fine. He’s still good. He’s still redeemable.

-

The next day, things are not better.

They didn’t find anything relating to Georgie, the Losers still think Robert’s a creep, and, to make it all worse, Bill’s throat feels like it’s on fire.

“You don’t sound too good, Billy,” Eddie says. “You might be getting sick.”

Bill hums softly. “Mm-Maybe-” he winces at how rough his voice sounds. “-Maybe I sh-sh-should go home.”

“Just rest here,” Stan suggests. “You can stay in my bed.”

“I - I don’t wanna get you ss-suh-sick.”

Stan shrugs. “It’s fine, I can change the sheets. I know how to do laundry.” Richie wolf whistles from across the room. “Oh, fuck off!”

“We can make you soup,” Eddie says. He’s already gathering the ingredients, so Bill supposes there’s no point in arguing.

He drags his feet up to Stan’s room, ignoring the growing pit in his stomach. He should just tell them the truth. It’s not that big of a deal, right?

It’s not until he’s curled up in bed that he notices Bev standing in the doorway.

“I know you’re not sick,” she says.

“I am,” Bill insists. “Doctor E-Eddie said suh-so.”

Bev gently shuts the door behind her. “Doctor Eddie’s also never had his throat fucked before.”

Bill winces. “That’s nuh-not what happened.”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she hisses. “I’m not an idiot. You have to stop doing this.”

“I’m not doing ah-anything wrong!”

“You protected me from my dad, you think I’m not gonna do the same for you?”

“It’s not th-th-the same. Wuh-We’re just friends, Bevvy.”

“He is _not_ your friend, William.” Bev regards him warily. “I won’t tell the others. But I think you should really think about your so-called friendship with Robert.” Bev turns to re-open the door. At the last minute, she turns back to face Bill. “Stan wants to know if you’re staying over. Ya know, parents out of town. Losers sleepover.”

Bill nods. “Pp-Pruh-Probably.”

Bev smiles softly. “Cool. And think about it, Bill. Alright? We really do want to help.”

And then she’s gone, leaving Bill alone with his thoughts.

The worst part of the conversation is that Bill remembers having the same talk with Bev a little less than a year ago. Their places had been reversed then. Bill had dragged her away from the prying eyes of the rest of the Losers and begged and begged until she broke. She told him _everything_ that night. And he held her through all of it, clutching her to his chest as Beverly Marsh, perhaps the strongest of them all, sobbed into his shoulder.

The memory is still raw, and not one he’s willing to share with anyone. She told the rest of the Losers the next day, but that night had been something private. Something that wasn’t meant to be shared.

It had been one of the most terrifying nights of Bill’s life. Second only to realizing Georgie wasn’t coming home.

The thought almost makes him chase after her, almost makes him tell her _everything_.

Except it’s not the same. Because nothing’s wrong.

Robert’s not his father. Robert’s his friend. He holds him when he cries, and listens to him when he needs to talk about Georgie again and again and _again_ , and takes him wherever he wants to look for his baby brother, even if he knows they won’t find anything.

He’s sure if he explained that, she would understand. He didn’t understand either at first. But, “ _It’s just like a trade_ ,” Robert had told him. “ _Remember how I drove you to town limits? I even bought you lunch afterwards. I do so much for you_.” Which, admittedly, is true.

It’s not like Robert’s holding him down or ripping his clothes off. Bill goes willingly, even if he cries afterwards sometimes. But Robert says that’s normal.

“Knock, knock.” Stan’s standing in the doorway now, a piping hot bowl of chicken noodle soup in his hands. “Eddie’s insistent that this will cure you.”

“Mmm. Doctor’s oh-orders,” Bill says, making grabby hands at the bowl.

“Doctor’s orders,” Stan repeats, a fond smile on his face.

He closes the door gingerly behind him before crossing to sit on the edge of the bed, soup balanced carefully on his lap.

Bill looks forward to these moments with Stan. These quiet, intimate moments where it feels like anything is possible. It’s these moments that make him think maybe this godforsaken town is wrong, and the way he feels about his friend is okay. It’s these moments that make him think maybe Stan feels it too.

“Are you gg-guh-gonna spoon feed me soup?” Bill asks as he fumbles to sit upright.

Stan just shrugs. “I mean, you’re sick.”

Bill nods gravely. “Deathly ill.”

That makes Stan crack a smile, but he quickly ducks his head in an attempt to hide it from Bill’s prying eyes. Bill sees it though, and it warms his heart far more than the soup ever could.

“Alright,” Stan murmurs. “Open wide.”

The soup, to put it lightly, is not good.

Out of all the Losers, Mike and Ben are probably the best cooks. But judging by how anal retentive Eddie is, Bill has no doubt that he refused their help. He can practically see him, in his head, shooing away his friends as Ben desperately tries to salt the slowly warming broth.

He doesn’t say a word, but Stan must notice the way Bill’s face contorts as he tries to force the soup down because he murmurs a quiet, “Sorry. Eddie thought adding anything else would take away from its quote unquote healing properties.”

Stan’s always been able to read him like a book. All the Losers are close, but something’s special about his friendship with Stan. Bill’s never had to say a word for him to know exactly what he’s thinking.

“Ff-Fuh-Figures,” Bill says.

“He just worries about you,” Stan says.

“He sh-shouldn’t have to. That’s not his jj-juh-job.”

Stan shrugs. “You would do the same for him.”

Bill doesn’t answer, because he knows it’s true.

-

At around 1 in the morning, Bill decides he can’t stay over any longer.

He’s got the bed to himself, on account of him being “sick,” but the rest of the Losers are spread unceremoniously across the floor. He has to tiptoe over their sleeping bodies, nearly tripping over Mike’s legs, to get to the door. And, of course, Richie and Eddie are cuddled up directly against it. He nudges them away with the top of his foot until there’s enough distance for him to slip out, which he does as quickly as possible.

He grabs the phone in the kitchen, which he’s sure is far enough away that it won’t wake the others, and quickly punches in the numbers swimming through his head.

The phone rings once, twice, three times. Enough that he thinks maybe he won’t pick up. But right as he’s about to hang up, a quiet voice rumbles through his ear, “Hello?”

“Robert!” he chirps.

“Billy? What the hell are you doing up at this hour?”

Bill gnaws nervously on his lower lip. Of course Robert’s asleep, he should’ve remembered that tiny detail.

“Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t huh-have woken you.”

“It’s alright, kid,” Robert says. “I’m up now. What do you need?”

“Can you pick me up?” Bill asks, before he can talk himself out of it.

“Sure,” Robert says through a yawn. “You at your house?”

“I’m at mm-muh-my friend’s house,” Bill says. “Hang on, I’ll guh-get you the address.”

Once he’s sure Robert’s going to come, he sets about writing a note for the Losers. He knows there’s pen and paper back in Stan’s room, but it’s too risky going back there, so he settles for digging through the office until he finds what he needs.

He’s halfway through said note when a soft noise startles him. He whips around, half expecting to come face to face with a knife-wielding murderer. But it’s just Stan.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

He’s blinking sleepily, obviously barely staying awake, and his hair is sticking up in all directions. His pajamas are a little too big on him, which is a sudden change from the Stanley that refuses to wear anything unless it fits just right. It’s suddenly too difficult to not imagine Stan in one of Bill’s oversized flannels.

It’s all so overwhelming that Bill nearly forgets to respond.

“What’s that?” Stan asks again, gesturing weakly to the pen in Bill’s hand.

“I - Uh - I’m guh-gonna go,” Bill says. “I just - I dd-duh-didn’t want you to freak out in the morning.”

Stan cocks his head curiously, and it’s so cute that Bill nearly calls Robert to tell him he’s changed his mind. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” Bill murmurs. “I’m ss-sorry. I don’t wanna get you guys sick.”

A more honest man would have told Stan that he’s terrified of facing Bev’s wrath again tomorrow. But Bill never claimed to be an honest man.

“Is your dad picking you up?” Stan asks.

“I - Um - I called Robert.”

That makes Stan pause. “You gave Robert my address?”

“How else is he gonna puh-pick me up?” It’s a lame argument, but it’s all Bill’s got.

Stan seems to be at a loss for words too, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “But - But - Why - I don’t want-”

“It’s ff-fuh-fine, Stan,” Bill assures him. “He’s not even gonna come inside.”

“I don’t know if that defines _fine_ ,” Stan grumbles.

Robert pulls up less than a minute later.

Bill scrambles to give Stan a hug before rushing outside to meet him. The summer air keeps most of the cold at bay, but it’s still fairly chilly, so Bill throws himself into the car as quickly as he can.

“Th-Thanks,” Bill says.

“Don’t mention it,” Robert says. He sounds much more awake now than over the phone. “You alright?”

“Mhm,” Bill says. “Jj-Juh-Just had to get out of there.” It’s then that Bill realizes the street they’re on doesn’t go to his house. “Wh-Where are we going?”

“Back to my place,” Robert says. “Figured we might as well just rest there. That alright?”

Bill figures that sounds reasonable enough. “Yeah. Th-That’s alright.”

In all honesty, it is fine. What’s Bill gonna do at home? Sit and stare at his ceiling all night and then not talk to his parents the next morning because they don’t care what happens to him? Sounds fun, but he’ll have to pass.

Bill’s never been to Robert’s apartment before. It’s smaller than he expected, but nice nonetheless. It has a cute little kitchen, a big, comfy couch directly across from an old TV, and huge, open windows. It’s _normal_. Almost overwhelmingly normal.

Bill almost wants to call his friends and tell them as much. _“He’s not a psychopath,”_ he would say. _“What kind of psychopath lives in a normal apartment?”_

Psychopaths live in old, run down, abandoned houses in the middle of nowhere. Friendly people who are absolutely nothing like Beverly’s father live in normal apartments.

“You have a nuh-nice apartment,” Bill says, politely.

Robert chuckles lowly. “Thank you.”

Then a hand is being placed on the small of Bill’s back and he’s being pushed farther and farther into the apartment until he collapses into the big, comfy couch. Robert sits next to him, a single casual hand on his shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Bill shrugs. “It’s not a bb-big deal. They just...They don’t understand. Ss-Suh-Sometimes it’s hard to be around them.”

It’s not completely true. They’ve lost people before. Eddie lost his father. Mike lost his parents. Stan lost his grandmother just a month or two ago.

But it’s not the same. Because none of them were responsible for that loss.

Robert nods and pulls Bill closer to him, tucking him against his side.

“People who haven’t been through what you have, they’ll never understand,” Robert says. “They don’t know what it’s like to lose someone like that. The bond between siblings is something special, and tearing it apart is one of the most painful things one could do.”

Bill sniffles quietly and shuffles closer to Robert’s side, burying his face in his shoulder. “I muh-muh-miss hh-him.”

“I know,” Robert coos. A gentle hand cards through Bill’s hair. “I know you do.”

“Duh-Does it even get easier?” Bill asks, voice muffled through the fabric of Robert’s T-Shirt.

Robert sighs heavily. “I’m gonna be honest with you kid, not really.” He chuckles softly at the whine Bill lets out. “I know, I know. But you learn to live with it. I miss my brother every day, it’s just a part of my life now.”

Bill twists around to stare up at Robert with wide, starry eyes. “Wh-What was your brother like?”

“Maturin was the sweetest soul I’ve ever known. He always put others before himself, always made sure everyone else was happy. He would give up everything if it just meant I would crack a smile.” He offers Bill perhaps the saddest smile he’s ever seen. “The best of us are truly the ones we lose too soon.”

Bill nods mutely. Georgie was truly the best of the Denbrough family. He was always willing to help out however he could, even as young as he was, and was always happiest whenever everyone else was happy. It almost pains Bill to hear someone else described as the “sweetest soul.”

“I’m - I might guh-go to bed,” Bill mutters. “I’m - I’m pp-pruh-pretty tired.”

“Great idea,” Robert says. As if on cue, he lets out a loud yawn.

“Do you huh-have some blankets I could borrow?”

“Yeah, sure,” Robert says. He makes a show of walking towards the linen cabinet before stopping and turning back towards Bill. “Ya know, why don’t you just sleep in my bed tonight.”

Bev’s words ring out through Bill’s head. He forces himself to keep eye contact. “Why?”

Robert shrugs. “I’m tired, you’re tired, and it’ll take awhile to make up the couch. The bed’s big enough” When Bill still hesitates, he sighs heavily. “Billy, have I ever hurt you before?” Bill shakes his head. “Then what’s the big deal?”

Bill pauses for only a split-second.

“No big deal.”

He follows Robert into the bedroom.

-

The next time Bill sees Stan, it’s just the two of them.

They’re lounging on Bill’s bed, Bill furiously scribbling into a notebook as Stan watches over the top of his book. It’s peaceful, just being with Stan like this. Something as simple as his presence has always done wonders for Bill’s nerves.

“What are you writing?” Stan asks.

“Re-writing th-the ending,” Bill says. His voice is slow and distracted, but Stan doesn’t seem to mind. He puts down his current book and shuffles closer, peering curiously over Bill’s shoulder.

“The one you let me read at the clubhouse?”

“Mhm.”

Stan lets out a little huff. “How are you torturing poor Sean now?”

Bill finally tears his gaze away from the notebook, instead fixing Stan with an affronted stare.

“I’m nuh-not torturing him!” he insists. “I’m trying to write a hh-happier ending.”

Bill doesn’t know why, but it’s embarrassing to admit. He feels like he’s just revealed some deep, dark secret. But Stan’s smiling, grinning almost infectiously wide, so Bill can’t be too hard on himself. He’s always liked making Stan smile.

“ _Really_?”

He sounds so _excited_. Bill thinks it’s kind of dumb. He’s half tempted to remind him that, hey, Sean isn’t actually real. He’s just a clump of words on a piece of paper. But Stan looks so unbelievably happy, Bill can’t possibly take that away from him.

“Jj-Juh-Just for you,” Bill says.

It makes Stan smile softly, like he can’t really believe it. “For me?”  
Bill nods. “I wrote it ff-for you, I can’t give it an eh-ending you don’t like.”

Stan scrunches up his nose, a key sign that he’s deep in thought. It’s cute, and it kind of makes Bill want to kiss him.

“I want Sean to kiss Suzie,” he says finally.

Bill groans loudly. “That’s so mm-muh-much extra work! Now I have to ah-add in a whole romance-”

“What about Jacob?” Stan says the words so quickly that Bill’s almost positive he’d imagined them. But Stan is red-faced and rigid, and that’s all it takes for Bill to know that the words he heard were very much real. “Would that - Would that be okay?”

Bill blinks slowly. Would that be okay? He thinks so. But how would he explain that to his mother if, God forbid, she ever stumbled upon this story?

“Bill?” Stan sounds so small, and when Bill snaps out of his thoughts he can see a sense of terror in Stan’s eyes that he’s never seen before.

“Yeah,” Bill murmurs. “Yeah, that’d be okay.”

Stan doesn’t say anything as Bill continues to write, but he watches him like a hawk. It’s like he’s afraid Bill will change his mind the moment he turns his back. Like he’s scared Bill will retaliate, and that it won’t be unlike the insults Bowers and his goons usually throw at him. The fact that Stan even _thinks_ that makes Bill hot with shame.

“Sean’s buh-better with Jacob, anyway,” he says, just to quell Stan’s worries.

Stan still doesn’t answer, but he does shuffle a bit closer.

By the time Bill finishes the story, Stan looks like he’s ready to implode. It’s about five pages longer than it was originally supposed to be, he still needed to add basically a whole other storyline to make the romance work, but Stan still reads it diligently.

“It’s cute,” he says softly, once he’s finished.

“You like it?”

Stan nods. “Better than the old ending.”

That makes Bill beam, because all he ever really wants is Stan’s approval.

“Look,” Stan murmurs, setting the notebook down gently beside him. He handles it with care, like it’s something worth worrying about. “I’m really sorry I made you do that. I didn’t - I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“I ww-wuh-wasn’t uncomfortable!” Bill insists. “It was a guh-good idea, it was cute! I jj-just didn’t know-”

“I’m gay.” And Bill has so many things to say, so many questions, but Stan barrels on before he can get even one of them out. “You probably figured that out, though. Fuck - I shouldn’t have - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean - I didn't mean to make things weird. Really. Can we just pretend like this never happened? I’m - I’m sorry. You can write the Suzie ending. You can just - just burn that one I guess. Fuck. I’m sorry-”

Bill grabs him by the front of his perfectly ironed polo and pulls him closer, closer, closer until their mouths are clashing together. It’s everything Bill’s been dreaming of. His lips are soft, softer than Bill could have even imagined, and it fills every dark, broken, crevice that haunts Bill’s heart with a warm, sunshiny feeling.

Bill pulls away to find Stan wide-eyed and pink-faced. He desperately wants to know what Stan’s thinking, but he’s shocked into a silence that speaks one too many volumes.

“Ss-Suh-Sorry,” Bill mutters. He forces his hands to unclench from around Stan’s shirt. The material is still wrinkled, but Bill figures that’s the least of their worries at the moment. Because, _fuck_ , Stan didn’t mean _him_. “I sh-shouldn’t have assumed.”

“I mean,” Stan’s fingers lift up to ghost over his lips, “A little warning would’ve been nice.”

Bill’s heart stutters in his chest. “Wh-What’s that muh-mean?”

Stan shakes his head, like he isn’t really sure himself. “You could’ve asked.”

Bill swallows the lump in his throat. “Can I kiss you?”

Rather than answering, Stan lurches forward and presses their lips together in a bruising kiss. And, fuck, this is even better. Stan’s got one hand in his hair, the other gripping his shoulder like he’s steadying himself. The way his lips move against Bill’s leave him lightheaded, and he has to grip Stan’s hips to remind himself that he isn’t, in fact, dreaming.

“Huh-Holy shit,” he says, the words muffled by Stan’s lips.

“Shut up, shut up,” Stan chants. Bill can feel Stan’s lips fumble against his own as he speaks. It makes him just a little bit crazy.

Bill does, in fact, shut up. He drags his hands up to cup Stan’s face, holding his cheeks like he’s precious cargo. The kiss slows but doesn’t stop, turning into something so sweet it makes Bill’s teeth rot.

He pulls away slowly, because it’s just about the last thing he wants to do, but his lungs are starting to ache. Seeing Stan with puffy lips and glassy eyes is enough to convince Bill to duck back in for one last peck before pulling away for good.

“You’re beautiful,” Bill blurts out.

“Oh.”

“And I think I’m in love with you.”

“ _Oh!_ ”

“I think I’ve always been in love with you. Ever since we were kids. Ever ss-since you waddled into my life as a cute little preschooler and demanded I use the hand sanitizer before shaking your hand.”

“You were covered in dirt,” Stan says weakly.

Bill laughs. A real laugh, from deep in his stomach. He hasn’t laughed like that in a long time.

He tries to go in for another kiss but Stan stops him, a hand clamped tightly over his mouth.

“Wait, wait,” he says. “I need to tell you something.” Bill hums softly against his palm. Stan’s eyes wander slowly over Bill, taking him all in. He looks flustered, but Bill doesn’t think he’s stalling. Taking a mental picture, more like. Bill understands. If there’s one moment he never wants to forget, it’s this one. Then, “I love you too.”

Bill’s spent his entire life trying to perfect the english language. He’s spent years hunched over a notebook, writing and re-writing and writing and re-writing until he’s gotten it as close to perfect as he possibly could. But nothing he’ll ever write will even get close to the perfect poetry that just flowed from Stan’s lips.

Bill grabs Stan’s hand between his own, leaving millions of tiny kisses along the palm.

“Please luh-let me kiss you again,” Bill practically begs. “Please, pp-please, please.”

Stan grants his wish, leaping forward to press their lips together again.

Distantly, Bill thinks this is better than breathing. If there’s one way he wants to die, it’s suffocating with Stanley Uris’ lips against his.

-

Two days later, no one has seen Stanley in a full 24 hours. A familiar panic has settled in Bill’s stomach. He’s gone through every other possible scenario in his head, gone through every excuse. But on some level he knows, Stan met the same fate as Georgie.

The Losers have spent the whole day wandering around town, hoping against hope they’ll find him somewhere. That it’s all just one, big misunderstanding. Bill keeps half expecting to see him around every corner, waiting for them with an eye roll and a dry joke that lets them know just know _silly_ they were for thinking he had gone missing. He’s never there.

They’re all uncharacteristically quiet that day. Even Richie doesn’t say a word. He just clings to Eddie’s hand and searches with an uncharacteristic amount of diligence.

Bill wants to fucking _scream_.

He wants to tell Richie it’s okay to talk, it’s okay to joke, it’s okay to be fucking normal. Because nothing’s wrong. Stan’s _fine_ and he’s going to be back any minute.

But, at the end of the day, Bill still finds himself in front of Robert’s door with enough tears to fill the Derry city pool streaming down his face.

“Huh-He’s guh-guh-gone,” Bill sobs.

Robert ushers him inside without another word. He lets Bill bundle up in his bed, pulling the covers up his chin and burying his face in the pillows. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognizes some form of guilt for letting Robert’s pillows get so wet, but that’s the least of his worries at the moment.

“Billy.” Robert kneels by the edge of the bed. Through blurry eyes, Bill can see his eyebrows furrow in concern. “What happened?” Bill shakes his head. He can’t. He can’t say it. Saying it makes it too real. “C’mon, you can do it. I know you can. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“St-Stanley. He - He’s-” Bill doesn’t get to finish before a fresh wave of tears wash over him. Fuck. _Fuckfuckfuckfuck_.

Robert scoops him up in his arms, cuddling him close to his chest.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re going to be okay. I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”

And Bill can do nothing but believe him.

-

Bill wakes up about an hour later to Robert gently mouthing at his neck, his hand gripping Bill’s hip hard enough to leave bruises. Bill grumbles softly and tries to roll away, but Robert tugs him back. He moves the hand on his hip to wrap tightly around Bill’s waist, effectively pinning him against him.

“‘M tt-tired,” Bill whines, voice still sore from crying.

“Had a dream,” Robert mumbles. His breath against his neck makes Bill’s skin prickle, but not in the same way Stan’s lips had. “A good dream. Need your help.”

“Ruh-Robert,” Bill huffs.

Not now, he wants to say. Not after he just got his heart stolen from his body.

“I’ll help you look for Stanley tomorrow,” Robert says. He’s moved on to mouthing at Bill’s jaw. “I always help you.”

Bill’s resolve crumbles. How is he supposed to argue with that? “Ff-Fine.”

He reaches down for Robert’s belt, but Robert catches his wrist in one, big hand and pins it above his head. It has Bill’s heart pounding in his ears and ice filling his veins.

“I have a better idea.”

Bill squirms, hoping it’ll convince Robert to let him go, but all it does is egg him on. He squeezes his wrists tighter, until Bill has to grit his teeth to stop himself from flinching.

“I’ve nuh-never - Wuh-We’ve never-”

“We can look _all day_ tomorrow.”

“I - I don’t know.”

Robert sighs heavily. “A man will only be so satisfied with blow jobs, Billy.”

And, God, Bill just wants to go _home_. He hasn’t wanted to go there in so long but right now it’s the only place he can think of. He wants to fucking go home. He wants his mom to hold him and tell him he’s going to be alright. He wants his dad to hug him tight and promise to keep him safe.

He just wants to be _okay_.

“All day?” he asks weakly.

Robert nods. “All day.”

“Oh-Okay.”

-

The first thing Stan notices when he wakes up is that he’s cold.

The second thing is that it’s dark. Too dark to see anything.

The third is that he can’t fucking move.

His hands are behind his back, rope biting into his wrists. His legs are curled underneath him. He doesn’t think he could stand if he wanted to (which he does, he really, really does) but his ankles are tied together anyway. And his back aches from being hunched over for God knows how long. He tries to sit up straight, but something yanks him back down.

And then he stays there like that for what feels like at least a thousand years.

When a door is finally opened, it’s almost too much to bare. The light is dim, barely there, but Stan still has to squint to get used to it.

And in the doorway is a man. A very familiar man, in fact. A man who knows his exact address after picking up his dumbass friend at 1 in the morning.

“Good morning,” says Robert.

He’s grinning wildly and Stan wants to fucking _cry_. He wants to sob until his lungs give out, and then he wants to cry some more.

He can feel the beginning of pinprick tears forming behind his eyes, and he bites the inside of his cheek harshly to stop them from spilling out. He may be a coward but he’ll be damned if he lets Robert know that.

“Aren’t you going to say hello?” Robert says cheerily.

Stan doesn’t answer. He’s too focused on other things, like not crying in front of a psycho kidnapper.

“Awe, Stanny, that’s not very polite.”

He crosses the last few steps to ruffle Stan’s hair and Stan fucking breaks. A sob wrenches its way out of his throat, making his shoulders shake and eyes burn. Tears dribble pathetically down his cheeks, landing in tiny puddles on the floor.

“I’m suh-sorry,” Stan manages to choke out. “Wh-Wh-Whatever - Whatever I dd-duh-did. I’m sorry.” He flinches as Robert cards his fingers through his hair, wrenching his head back when his fingers catch on the curls. “ _Please_.”

Stan doesn’t know what he’s begging for, all he knows is that it doesn’t work. Because Robert fucking laughs, all loud and boisterous, as if Stan’s told him one of Richie’s shitty jokes.

“Oh, Stanny,” he murmurs. He moves to grasp Stan’s chin with one hand, squeezing his cheeks and pressing dirty nails into his skin. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had just kept your hands off of what’s mine.”


	2. The Disappearance of Stanley Uris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill, true to his word, searches for Stan from the moment he wakes up to the moment he crawls, defeated, back into Robert’s truck. By that time, the sun has long since gone away, replaced by a watchful moon and a million tiny stars. Most nights, Bill thinks they’re beautiful. Patches of light in a world full of dark. But tonight they only fill him with an unfathomable amount of anger. How dare they return to this world looking exactly the same as the night before? Don’t they know what happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check updated tags for trigger warnings

Robert’s prized possession is a tiny, portable camera he carries with him everywhere. Bill knows it all too well. It snaps photos on all of their little excursions. Sometimes it even comes out in those moments where Bill’s on his knees, Robert towering above him. He hears the quiet  _ click _ and shame burns hot throughout his body.

But he never asks to see the photos. He’s never once asked to look through the camera roll. Why would he need to? There’s nothing there he wants to see.

But, as of currently, the camera isn’t being pointed at Bill. Instead it’s being pointed at Stan. Stan who is standing against the far wall, swaying slightly on his feet, with blood on his face and bruises on his neck.

Stan had gotten a surge of hope when the camera was first revealed, but Robert must have seen the glint in his eyes because he simply laughed and said, “Don’t get any ideas. No one sees this old thing but me.”

The idea of Robert saving this moment forever, the idea that he can go back and relive it whenever he wants, makes Stan’s veins turn to ice. Hasn’t he had enough? Isn’t it enough to make Stan’s skin turn purple and his eyes turn glassy? Why does he need to make it last?

The thought makes Stan’s lower lip tremble, but he quickly sucks it between his teeth, biting harshly, in a desperate attempt to keep it still. He’ll be damned if he lets Robert see him cry  _ again _ .

“Deep in thought?” Robert coos. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

For a split second Stan can see the facade of the man Bill trusts so much. He can see why he puts his heart and soul in his hands. This man seems charming, caring even. Like a favorite uncle. The thought makes Stan sick.

It takes him a few minutes to get his voice to work. The first few tries, all that come out are rather pathetic little squeaks. Robert, who seems rather amused by this, snaps a few more photos.

“Bill,” Stan finally gets out. “What - What do you want with him?”

Robert sighs heavily and crosses the last few feet between them. Stan pathetically tries to push himself closer to the wall.

“Billy and I’s relationship is something you will simply never understand,” Robert says. “He’s special.”

“I know he’s special.” Stan spits the words out venomously. Even if he can’t look Robert in the eye, his words cut deep. He knows because a moment later he’s being smacked  _ hard _ across the face. He doesn’t have time to recover before Robert’s grabbing his chin, forcefully turning his head until they’re nose to nose.

“Don’t ever speak to me like that again,” Robert snarls, teeth bared and spit flying. “You should be thanking me. I could’ve left you out for the wolves. I could’ve killed you. But did I? No. And this is the thanks I get?” He squeezes Stan’s face harder, pressing the inside of Stan’s cheeks up against his teeth. “Say it.”

“ _ Wh-What? _ ”

“Say thank you.” Stan shakes his head. Or, tries to shake his head. It’s hard with the vice-like grip holding him in place. “C’mon, Stanny, don’t be rude. Things won’t go well if you can’t behave.”

Stan isn’t sure what that means, but there’s no way to doubt that it’s a threat. And Stan doesn't think he’s in any position to be ignoring those right about now.

“Thank you,” he chokes out.

“Good boy,” Robert hums. He drops his hand, and graciously doesn’t say anything when Stan’s own hands come up to rub at his aching cheeks. “What you need to understand, Stanley, is that I know things about Billy that you never will.”

Stan nods mutely, as if he understands. He just has to be good. If he’s good then Robert will have no reason to hurt him. He doesn’t even flinch that much when Robert starts to twirl one of his curls between his finger.

“You’ve actually helped bring us so much closer,” Robert says.

“Please don’t hurt him,” Stan whispers. He keeps his eyes downcast. Speaking out of turn is enough of a risk, he doesn’t need to anger him further.

“Hurt him?” Robert balks, as if the statement is outrageous. As if he would never dream of such a thing. As if he doesn’t have Stan locked in his fucking basement. “I would  _ never _ hurt him, Stanley. Billy’s become very special to me in the past few weeks.” He tuts quietly. “I can’t believe you would think so lowly of me.”

Stan has  _ so many _ questions. They swirl around his head, each fighting to be more important than the one before. He half feels that if he doesn’t get an answer to each and every one  _ right now _ he’ll implode. But one question was risky enough, so he takes to nodding quietly instead.

But that’s not enough for Robert, who tugs sharply on the curl he still has spun around his finger. Stan squeaks out a quiet, “Sorry,” which Robert seems to deem good enough because he lets the curl drop a moment later.

“I’m going out,” he says, as casually as if he’d just announced he was heading out to buy a new pint of milk.

“Alright,” Stan says, because what the fuck else does he say to that?

Robert stares at him, and Stan has the most awful feeling that he’s trying to decide whether or not his response was good enough. He seems to decide it is, though he still presses his thumb into a bruise blooming just under Stan’s right eye and chuckles lowly when Stan winces.

A moment later the door slams closed and Stan is, once again, alone. Except he doesn’t feel any sort of relief. He’s  _ alone _ alone. The only person who knows where he is is Robert, and who the hell knows when he’ll be back.

For a single, alarming minute, Stan considers the fact that he might never be back. Stan might be left here to starve and rot. But that’s somehow worse than Robert coming back, so Stan pushes it to the back of his mind before he can panic too much.

He slides to the floor, allowing the far wall to support a majority of his body weight. The floor is filthy, but the impending threat of literal death is currently far too pressing for Stan to really be worried about that.

Because that’s what’s going to happen. There’s no way to escape it. Whether it’s today or tomorrow or next month, at some point Stanley Uris is going to die alone in a dark basement, far, far away from the comfort of his friends. They’ll probably never even know what happened to him. And that, somehow, is the scariest thought of all.

-

Bill, true to his word, searches for Stan from the moment he wakes up to the moment he crawls, defeated, back into Robert’s truck. By that time, the sun has long since gone away, replaced by a watchful moon and a million tiny stars. Most nights, Bill thinks they’re beautiful. Patches of light in a world full of dark. But tonight they only fill him with an unfathomable amount of anger. How dare they return to this world looking exactly the same as the night before? Don’t they know what happened?

If they had just waited a few more minutes, if Bill had just had a little bit longer, maybe he could have found something. Even if it was just a clue, he would be one step closer.

Except, he wouldn’t be. Because deep in his heart of hearts, Bill knows that no matter how much time he had, he never would have found anything.

He failed with Georgie, and he’s going to fail with Stanley.

A hand on his knee rips him out of his thoughts. He jumps in his seat, a soundless yelp struggling to escape his throat. But when he looks again, it’s just Robert.

“I’m sorry we didn’t find anything, Billy,” he says.

Bill shrugs, wordlessly. Because what would he say? Would he say that it’s okay? That they’ll find something eventually? Bill can’t keep lying to himself. It’s not okay, and he’s never going to find something. He just has to accept that.

“Hey,” Robert murmurs. “C’mon, talk to me.”

“Huh?” Bill’s gaze slowly moves, like a buffering computer, up from Robert’s hand on his knee, to his face.

“Are you alright?”

“I…” Bill’s eyes find the moon again. Distantly, he wonders if Stan, wherever he is, is looking at the moon as well. Is he thinking about him? Does he know how worried Bill is?

Bill can see him in his imagination, sitting on the rough ground as he stares up at the moon. Bill tries to focus on Stan’s surroundings, as if it will somehow lead him to the real life Stan. But they remain fuzzy, like a half-processed photograph.

“ _ Billy! _ ” Bill nearly leaps out of his seat at the booming voice, only Robert’s hand keeping him grounded. “You have been like this all fucking day! I do a nice thing for you - I go out of my way to help you - and  _ this _ is the thanks I get?”

It’s the first time Robert’s really gotten angry with him, the first time Bill’s ever seen that fire in his eyes. It makes Bill’s skin crawl and heart hammer. Little alarms are sounding in his head. Each screaming:  _ Danger! Danger! Danger! _ But he can’t move. All he can do is sit there and stare at Robert with comically large eyes, hoping and praying the anger doesn’t get any worse.

Flashes of the night before only add to the fear. Images of hands digging into his hips and his face shoved in a pillow echo through his brain. He can still feel the ache in his thighs, a constant reminder like a thumb pressing into a bruise.

“I - I’m - sss-suh-suh-”

Robert must sense the fear Bill feels, because he sighs deeply and moves the arm on Bill’s knee to wrap around his shoulders, pulling him tightly against him.

“I’m sorry, Billy,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to get upset. I just worry about you.”

Bill nods, despite the anxiety still pooling in his stomach. He’s ready to leave it there, content with a silent agreement that  _ yes, everything is okay now _ , but not talking had been exactly what had upset Robert. So Bill murmurs out a quiet, “I know. I’m suh-sorry.”

Robert hums quietly. “We’ll find him, I’m sure of it. He can’t be far.”

Bill traps his lower lip between his teeth, sinking them into the soft flesh until it’s red and bitten. There’s something else he has to say. Something else he has to tell Robert. Something that might change their entire search.

Robert brings him out of his thoughts with a soft chuckle, which is certainly better than the screaming he had been doing only a moment earlier. But the way he drags Bill’s lip away from his teeth with his thumb still makes the hair on the back of Bill’s neck stand on end.

“Thinking hard over there?” Robert says.

“Stan,” Bill says. He keeps his voice quiet, because without him here, Stan’s name feels precious. Something that could be tainted if he said it wrong. “I’m ww-wuh-worried about him.”

“I know-”

“No!” In a flash, Bill is sitting upright again. He fixes Robert with a steely stare. He  _ doesn’t _ know. “I’m worried h-he did this to - to hh-huh-himself.” Upon Robert’s inquisitive stare, he continues, “Stan ww-wuh-was always - I dunno - ss-sad?” There’s more to it than that, there’s so much more. He wasn’t sad, he was never sad. But it’s complex. And sometimes sad is the only word people understand. “Rr-Ruh-Richie found him one time. In the bb-bb-buh-buh-bah -  _ Fuck _ \- It doesn’t matter! He - He hh-hurt himself, and we th-thought everything was buh-better now. But wh-wh-what if-” He cuts himself off with a sniffle, horrified to find his eyes shiny with tears  _ again _ . Crying is starting to become a constant part of his day.

“Fuck,” Robert says. “Shit, kid, I’m so sorry.”

Bill shrugs. For a moment he considers telling him what happened the night before Stanley’s disappearance. He considers telling him how nice Stan’s curls felt in his hands. He considers telling him how soft his lips were. He considers telling him how Stan’s shy smile made his entire body feel like it was on fucking fire. Instead he settles for, “Stan was the best of us.”

-

Stan wakes up to the sound of heavy footsteps. Heavy footsteps thundering down the stairs, heading right towards the locked door only a few mere feet away.

He manages to scramble into a sitting position right as Robert throws the door open.

Robert regards him carefully, like one regards an animal in a zoo. Stan half has the urge to cover his face in his hands, just so he won’t have to see those ice cold eyes boring into his soul. But he knows better than to take his eyes off Robert.

In one hand, Robert’s holding a lantern. It’s dim and flickering, barely illuminates the room, but it’s better than the suffocating darkness Stan had been surrounded by only seconds ago. In his other hand, he’s got a paper bag. Stan hates to think about what might be in it, but he can’t stop his imagination from running wild. Various knives and torture devices, each one worse than the last, run through his mind. It drags a soft whimper from his lips, despite how hard he tries to stifle it.

Robert chuckles quietly, letting the door slam closed behind him.

“Miss me?” he asks. When Stan doesn’t reply, he tuts quietly. “Why is everyone ignoring me today?”

“Sorry,” Stan chokes out.

Robert hums softly to himself. “That’s a start.”

He sets the lamp and bag on the floor, and Stan can’t help but lean forward as Robert starts to rustle through the bag. He pulls out a hastily wrapped peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which he holds out to Stan as if he were a dog begging for a treat.

“You hungry?”

Stan doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to, Robert can see the way his eyes lock on the food. He can hear the way his stomach growls the moment the sandwich is out in the open.

“Yeah?”

Stan knows it’s a bad idea, he doesn’t know what the hell Robert did to that sandwich, but he nods anyway. It’s short and broken, but that’s all he needs.

Robert grins wolfishly as he puts the sandwich back in the bag. “You’re gonna need to work for it.”

Before Stan has a chance to wonder what the fuck that means, something is clattering to the ground right before his feet. It’s hard to recognize in the dim light, though that does nothing to ease Stan’s anxiety. He nudges it gently with his foot, as if to check it for explosives. Nothing happens but, again, this does not make him feel any better.

“Pick it up,” Robert urges. “It’s alright.”

Except it most definitely is not alright, because Stan recognizes it as soon he’s got his hands on it. An old razor blade, rusted and worn, rests between his fingers.

“I - I don’t - I don’t understand,” he says, feeling breathless. Like he just got all the wind punched out of him.

“Well you can’t expect me to do all the work!” Robert exclaims.

The longer Stan stares at the cool metal, the clearer the memory becomes. The slosh of the water. The red on his arms. The inhuman sobs Richie let out, glasses fogging up as he clutches Stan’s cold, unresponsive hand between his two warm ones.

“You want me...You want me to-” Stan can’t even finish the thought.

_ “Please don’t go,” _ Richie had begged,  _ “Please don’t leave us.” _

“Just a couple,” Robert says. He’s leaning against the wall. It’s infuriatingly casual and for a moment Stan wants to leap across the room and lodge the blade into his neck, right below his adam’s apple. Which is strange, because Stan’s never been a violent person.

“You don’t want me to - to kill myself?” Stan asks, feeling his mouth go dry.

_ Please don’t go _ .

“God, no,” Robert says, and he has the audacity to look offended. “We are nowhere near done, Stanley.”

Stan swallows thinkly. The blade is so small. It’s strange to think something so small could cause so much pain and fear.

“I’ve been clean for so long,” he says, more to himself than Robert.

_ Please don’t leave us _ .

“I can do it myself,” Robert says. “But it won’t be nearly as nice. I won’t be happy to have to do your job for you.”

_ Nice _ isn’t exactly a word Stan would associate with his current situation. But, nonetheless, having Robert slice up his arms does sound infinitely worse than doing it himself.

Stan holds out his arm, ignoring how Robert cranes his neck to get a better look, and prepares the blade against his skin. It makes little goosebumps prickle across his forearm.

He hasn’t done this in so long, and yet the first cut still feels as familiar as riding a bike. A very painful, very guilt-ridden bike.

He lets out a quiet hiss as blood dribbles down his arm. It lands in little splatters on the floor beneath him, and distantly he remembers he can’t even fucking clean it up afterwards.

As the second cut goes in, he’s transported back to a shiny clean bathroom with red-stained white tiles. He’s transported back to the stench of cleaning supplies as he scrubs relentlessly, ignoring how his arms sting with the effort. He’s transported back to too-tightly-wrapped bandages and too big sweatshirts.

The third cut goes in.

He’s vaguely aware he’s crying. He must be. What else would someone else do in this situation?

The fourth cut.

He can see Richie sitting next to him in a hospital room. He looks exhausted, but he still grins when he sees Stan open his eyes.

_ “Stan the man _ , _ ” _ he says.  _ “You’re alright.” _

The fifth cut.

Richie’s not grinning anymore. Now his glasses are fogging up again, even if both of them valiantly ignore it.

_ “Promise me you won’t do it again,” _ he grits out. _ “Please. Promise me.” _

That drags a sob out of Stan. Real life Stan, not hospital Stan. Hospital Stan smiles wetly, and promises to try. Real life Stan can’t keep a promise to save his life.

“Please.” Stan can barely see Robert through his blurred vision. It’s a miracle he’s able to get any words out at all. “Please, don’t - don’t make me d-do any - anymore.”

But Robert’s already fixated on the scene before him. Stan looks so small, huddled into himself as his own blood puddles around him.

“You want your prize, don’t you?” he says.

Stan wails brokenly. There’s so much blood on his arm. It’s practically gushing now, covering his skin in the sticky substance.

“ _ No! _ ” he sobs. “No, no, no,  _ no _ !”

Robert sighs, like a mother watching her son throw a temper tantrum in a grocery store, as he crosses the room to kneel before Stan. Stan hiccups softly, and clutches the blade in his palm. If Robert can’t get to it, he can’t hurt him.

But it doesn’t matter, because Robert was never going for the blade. Instead he grips Stan’s arm in one, calloused hand and presses his thumb roughly against the cut closest to his wrist.

Stan  _ screams _ . He screams so loud, he’s surprised no one hears him. But of course they don’t. No one’s ever going to hear him.

“Do you know why Billy was ignoring me?” Robert snarls, ignoring how Stan tries to twist his wrist away in favor of rubbing his thumb over the cut. “Because he was thinking about you. I thought if I eliminated the problem, if I took away all the factors, that he would realize his mistake. But you’re  _ still _ managing to come between us.”

“Please,” Stan sobs. “Please stop. I’m sorry, _ I’m sorry! _ ”

Robert only grips his wrist harder, digging his fingers into the rest of the cuts.

“I know what you did,” he growls. Spit flies from his mouth, landing on Stan’s cheeks and mixing with the constant stream of tears. “I saw it. You put your hands all over him. You think he belongs to  _ you _ , but he’s  _ mine _ . Do you understand?”

“ _ Let go of me! _ ” Stan screams.

“ _ I said do you understand? _ ”

“ _ Yes! Yes, I understand! _ ”

Robert drops his arm, and Stan scrambles to cradle it gently against his chest. It pulsates angrily, the beginnings of bruises forming beneath the still steadily streaming blood.

Robert stands and for one glorious moment Stan thinks he’s leaving. But he returns a moment later, paper bag in hand.

It’s as if a switch has been flipped in his brain. He hands Stan the sandwich casually, like they’re old friends on a picnic. Then he pulls out a package of fresh bandages. Stan eyes them desperately, almost more desperately than he eyed the food.

“Give me your arm,” Robert commands. Stan whines. “Unless you want to bleed out.”

“I can do it,” Stan says weakly. “I’ve done it before.”

Robert chuckles, brushing Stan’s sweaty curls away from his eyes. “It’s cute you think you can call the shots. Give me your arm.”

Stan gives it to him. He watches him like a hawk but, true to his word, Robert cleans the blood off his arm and bandages it tightly. Although he does squeeze it afterwards, earning himself a yelp from Stan. Stan supposes he can’t handle doing even one nice thing without causing a little bit of pain. Not that any of this could be considered nice.

As soon as his arm is free, Stan pounces on the sandwich. It has to be disgusting, watching him eat. He tears into the food as quickly as he can, not caring if he gets peanut butter on his face or if he chews with his mouth open. But Robert doesn’t seem to care. He watches his every movement with the intensity of a lion stalking its prey.

“Good?” Robert says when Stan’s finished his meal. Stan nods. “Don’t forget your manners.”

“Thank you,” Stan whispers.

Robert stands. “Good boy.”

He ruffles Stan’s hair, much like one would to a family dog, before stalking through the door. It closes with a deafening  _ slam _ , followed by an almost comically quiet  _ click _ of a lock.

He leaves the lantern, which is a nice change of pace. Stan keeps expecting him to return any moment now and snatch it away, to take away his last shred of sanity. But he doesn’t.

Once his breathing evens out again, whether that be seconds or hours Stan isn’t sure, he slowly stands on shaky legs and begins to tip-toe around the room. There isn’t much to see. Gray walls. Gray floor. Gray ceiling.

The only other thing in the entire basement is a small cardboard box. For a while, Stan tries to ignore it. He doesn’t know what the hell could be in there. What if it’s disembodied limbs? What if it’s something worse?

But eventually his curiosity gets the best of him. Of course it does. What the fuck else does he have to do?

Fortunately, it turns out the box is not full of limbs. In fact, it’s shockingly normal. It’s full of clothes, stuffed animals, old cameras. The same stuff any sane person would put in their basement.

Against his better judgement, Stan shuffles through the contents. He passes an old jacket, a raggedy looking teddy bear, a T-Shirt with a massive hole under the armpit, and roughly a million cameras before he finds something of interest.

It’s a small turtle plushie, worn and droopy, but Stan can’t help but pull it close to his chest. Something about it is so familiar. He can almost see the life it had before it was shoved down here and forced to live out the rest of its life in the dark and the cold. He can almost see the face of a young toddler, gripping the turtle like its his lifeline, as he laughs wildly at something his big brother said.

Stan gasps sharply. Realization knots in his stomach and no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, he knows exactly who the turtle belonged to even before he yanks a flash of yellow out from the bottom of the box. He fumbles with the raincoat until he finds the tag, and despite how he  _ knows _ exactly who went missing in this coat, the lettering still punches a hole through his heart.  _ Georgie Denbrough _ is scribbled in big, messy letters, and  _ fuck _ if that doesn’t start the waterworks again.

Stan always liked Georgie. He was a sweet kid. He was always excited about something, talking faster than Stan could understand. Derry got so much quieter after he disappeared.

Staring at the blood-stained jacket, Stan feels sick. He wants to shove it back into the farthest corner of the box, he doesn’t want to think about it ever again.

But then he thinks about Bill. He had been completely shattered when Georgie failed to come back home that day. Stan had held him in his arms for  _ hours _ as he cried, sobbing until he had no tears left.

And Bill’s done so much for Stan. He helped him change his bandages after the incident, not making any comments out of the ordinary the entire time. He never once thought less of Stan, never once thought of him as a coward, even when that was the only way Stan could see himself. He had always struggled to see the best parts of himself, but Bill made him feel special.

Bill’s always been there for Stan, so who is he if he doesn’t do this for Bill?

In truth, he doesn’t know if he’ll see him again, but someone needs to find out what happened to Georgie.

He goes through at least five cameras before he finds anything with Georgie. By the time he gets to it, he already feels like projectile vomiting. His head is stuffed full of various images of gore and violence, but he can’t stop now. He’s so close.

Georgie is the first photo on the fifth camera. It’s bad, but not murder bad, though Stan knows it will get there. Georgie’s standing against the wall. Blood’s spilling from a busted swollen lip, and bruises scatter his face. The worst are directly under his left eye, swelling enough that his eye is only half-open, and across his neck. It’s not unlike the photos Robert took of Stan merely a few days ago.

From there on out, they only get worse.

Stan can hear the phantom screams as he scrolls through the photos. Mangled limbs and a blood smeared face appear in every one, always with a matching set of tears.

But the last one is the worst. Georgie’s arm has been chopped clean off, and his eyes are distant and glassy. Stan has no doubt it was one of his last moments.

He clicks the camera off as quickly as he can. He’s seen enough. He’s seen more than enough.

He shoves everything back into the box, burying the cameras under piles of clothing. But he keeps the turtle. He holds it close to his chest and tries not to think about Georgie in this exact position.

-

In the month and a half since Stanley’s disappearance, things have not gotten better.

Bill still spends most of his time looking for him and Georgie, either with Robert or the Losers, but always with the same outcome. Nothing.

The clubhouse is especially lonely without him. It’s a place meant for all seven of them, and knowing that Stan’s out God knows where, doing God knows what, while the rest of them are safe inside only makes the guilt in Bill’s stomach grow. He should be out doing something. He should be helping. What’s he doing instead? Sitting alone as the rest of his friends murmur away, scribbling a story into a notebook that nobody will read.

He had thought this would make the Losers understand, that they would finally see Robert the way he saw him. But it only seemed to increase their hatred. Especially Richie’s.

“I bet Robert has something to do with this,” he seethes. “He’s a fucking creep.”

“Wh-Wh-What would Robert want with Stan?” Bill asks, trying to ignore the way the words prickle under his skin.

“How the fuck should I know? I don’t know how he thinks.”

“Robert d-duh-didn’t do anything with Ssss-Stuh-Stuh-Stan,” Bill says. “He’s been helping me look for huh-him.”

“Yeah, and guess what? You haven’t found anything.”

Bill’s head snaps up, eyes locking with Richie’s icy cold ones. This has been hard on all of them, but especially Richie. He had done a complete 180, going from the lighthearted, goofy one of the group, to their local conspiracy theorist. Their local  _ angry _ conspiracy theorist. Because he’s pissed off all the time now, which Bill understands. Bill’s always understood anger, he’s understood it far too well. But Bill’s anger is all inside. It sits amongst his organs, slowly poisoning him from the inside out. Richie’s anger is all outward, directed towards anyone and anything that so much as breathes wrong.

“Statistically, a lot of murderers will come back to the scene of the crime afterwards,” Mike pipes up. “They like to help the police. It gives them a sense of accomplishment.”

“Gives them a god complex, more like,” Bev says, words slightly muffled around her cigarette.

“Rr-Ruh-Robert’s not a murderer, guys.”

“You don’t know that!” Eddie cries out.

“If he was a mmm-murderer, don’t you think he would’ve killed me bb-buh-by now?” Bill says.

Bev narrows her eyes at him. Bill doesn’t have to be a genius to know what she’s trying to say. Maybe Robert doesn’t want to kill him, maybe he wants him for something else.

But Bill shakes the idea from his head. It’s not like that. He does favors for Robert because they’re friends, because he helps him. Robert would never purposefully hurt him.

The statement derails Eddie, though, who just huffs quietly and shakes his head. He doesn’t like it, Bill knows he doesn’t like it, but he’s mulling it over in his brain. It’s silent for a while, as the group as a whole waits for Eddie’s final say.

“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs eventually, his quiet voice breaking the silence. “Maybe.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Richie snaps. “Just because he hasn’t killed you, doesn’t mean he hasn’t gotten his hands on someone else!” Bill watches with a silent glare, hoping his lack of response will be enough to let Richie know that he doesn’t want to play this game anymore. But it only seems to encourage Richie’s train of thought. “Maybe killing gets him off. Maybe you’re just not his type.”

“Rich,” Beverly whispers, tugging gently on the back of his shirt. He doesn’t take any notice.

“Ever think about that?” Richie’s eyes are fiery now. The ice has melted away, leaving only the burning hot rage that lives beneath it. “Ever think about how Stanley lived his last moments?”

“Sh-sh-shut up, Rich.”

“Probably begging for his life. Alone and scared, begging for it to be over.”

“ _ Shut uh-up _ , Richie!”

“And I bet that got Robert real hot and heavy. So he fucked Stanley’s corpse, over and over again, using it like a fuck toy until it was oozing all sorts of disgusting liquids.”

“ _ Shut up! _ ”

Richie narrows his eyes. “You know he did the same to Geor-”

Bill flies to his feet, his notebook flinging itself from his hands. “ _ Fuck you, Richie! _ ” he screams, barely noticing Richie’s yelp when the notebook makes contact with his nose. “ _ Fffff-Fuck you! You know that’s not true! _ ”

“I don’t know anything!” Richie yells. He looks positively terrifying, blood dripping down his nose and onto his lips, filling his mouth and making him fumble with his words. His hands, which had been covering his swelling nose, are also smeared with blood. They shake as he points one accusingly at Bill. “But I know more than you do! You can’t even admit that  _ ‘friend’ _ of yours has something fucking wrong with him!”

“He’s more of my friend than yuh-you are!”

That gives Richie pause, though he looks no less angry as he spits a mouthful of blood at Bill’s feet. “I’m sure you believe that.”

Bill closes the gap between them, and Richie tenses up, like he thinks Bill’s going to hit him. But Bill just shoulders his way past him, not looking back as he climbs his way up the ladder and storms back towards the direction of his house.

He’s barely made it a foot when someone else is suddenly walking by his side.

“I’m ff-fuh-fine, Bev,” he huffs.

“Yeah, you look real fine. What the fuck was that?”

“RR-Ruh-Richie started it!”

Beverly gapes at him. “ _ Richie started it? _ How fucking old are you?”

Bill flushes, but refuses to give her the satisfaction of giving in. “It’s true.”

“You know what else is true? Richie’s hunch.”

“It is not-”

“It is, you know it is,” Bev hisses. “Maybe not word for word, but you know exactly what Robert’s doing with Stan. You know he’s doing the exact same thing he’s doing to you.”

“Robert doesn’t have Ss-Stan,” Bill says through gritted teeth. “He’s nuh-not a rapist. And he’s not a murderer.”

Bev fixes him with a harsh stare, one that makes him want to crawl inside his own skin and hide there for the rest of his days. “We both know at least one of those things isn’t true.”

“He’s  _ not _ ,” Bill says firmly. “He’s my-”

“He’s your friend, I know,” Bev says. Her patience is wearing thin, Bill knows it is. He can hear it in her voice. The way she raises her voice ever so slightly, the way her words strain to escape gritted teeth, make it explicitly clear what she’s thinking. “But we’re your friends too. Stan was - is - our friend. We miss him as much as you do.”

“You don’t gg-get it-”

“I  _ get it _ , Bill,” Bev says. “You want him to be a good person. You want him to be good for you. But it’s fantasy, you have to face that!” Bill shakes his head, eyes screwed shut. “You’re hurting your friends! Your  _ real _ friends!”

“Wh-What makes you better than Robert?” Bill seethes.

“Well, for starters, I didn’t fuck you so hard you can’t walk straight.”

Bill’s eyes drop down to his feet. “Maybe I jj-juh-just stubbed my toe.” Bev fixes him with a harsh stare. “Alright, fine. But it’s different!”

“It’s not normal!”

“Why?” Bill snarls. “Because we’re two guh-guys? What about Richie and Eddie? Are you gonna tell them-”

“You  _ know _ that’s not the same,” Bev hisses, pointing an accusatory finger in Bill’s face. “Robert’s a million years old!”

“He understands me!”

“He understands how to manipulate you.”

Bill shakes his head, quickening his pace. “Fuck off, Bevvy.”

-

Robert’s apartment has become a place more requented than Bill’s own home. Because there isn’t an inch of space in his home that doesn’t shred his heart into tiny little pieces. He can’t look at Georgie’s bedroom door without feeling sick. He can’t even go in his own fucking room without thinking about the kiss he and Stan had shared. And his parents offer no comfort, choosing instead to busy themselves with housework and whatever else will numb their minds rather than checking in on their own goddamn son.

But Robert’s apartment doesn’t have any connections. Georgie was never here. Stan was never here.

So it’s become his new place of refuge. Which is why he’s currently standing in the kitchen, rambling about his shitshow of a day, as he helps Robert make sandwiches for his upcoming road trip.

He’s moving nearly halfway across the country. Bill knows he should be happy for his friend, happy he’s getting out of his shitshow of a town, but he can’t help but feel a spurt of jealousy. Why does he get to leave? Why is he allowed to escape?

“I can’t ss-stand it here any longer,” Bill’s saying, mindlessly rubbing perhaps too much peanut butter on his third sandwich. “This ff-fuh-fucking town. No one fucking cares about anything. Kids ddd-disappear left and right, and no one does ah-anything! Even my own friends, they’re all complacent. It’s just-” He groans loudly, and smashes the two bread slices together. They crumple under the force. “I’m sick of it.”

“They’ll come around,” Robert says.

“I just wish I lived somewhere normal,” Bill murmurs. “Somewhere where people don’t disappear into th-thin air every two seconds.”

Robert makes a sad noise in the back of his throat. He crosses the kitchen, only stopping once he’s situated directly behind Bill, hands rubbing gentle circles into his shoulders. “You sound stressed.”

“Yeah, well, things huh-haven’t exactly been great lately.”

“I’m sure I could help you with that.”

Bill’s knuckles go white around the countertop as Robert’s hands travel lower and lower until they’re resting just above the hem of Bill’s jeans.

“I - I don’t know,” Bill says. He can’t get the image of Bev out of his head. Surely if Robert listens to him, if he listens to what he wants, he can’t be a bad person. Right? “Nuh-Not now.”

“Why not?” Robert’s kissing down his neck now, stubble rubbing against the sensitive skin until it’s red and irritated.

“B-Because I - I’m - We’re in the kitchen,” Bill stutters out.

Robert chuckles. “That’s alright. I don’t mind.”

“But-”

“Billy.” He’s fiddling with the button of Bill’s jeans now. “C’mon, it’ll make you feel better. You know I would never hurt you.” Bill takes a deep breath through his nose. He nods. “Good. Now bend over.”

Hesitantly, Bill does as he’s told. The counter is cold against his cheek, and instantly he wants to stand upright again. But Robert’s got one hand on the small of his back, holding him firmly in place, and Bill knows he isn’t going anywhere for awhile.

-

Afterwards, Bill takes a shower. He sits through most of it, just letting the water wash over his aching limbs, watching as the sticky substance coating his thighs disappears down the drain. He sits there until the water runs cold, and then sits there some more. It’s not until Robert knocks on the door, asking if he’s okay, that Bill finally gets himself to move.

He throws on the same clothes he had been wearing before the shower. Robert had offered him a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, but Bill leaves them lying in a crumpled pile on the floor.

Robert’s leaning against the door frame when he opens the door, a cheshire cat grin on his face. “If you wanted to go round two, you could’ve just said something.”

Bill’s cheeks light up, a bright cherry red. “I ww-wasn’t - That’s not what-”

“Relax, I’m just teasing you,” Robert says. Bill lets out a dry laugh, though it sounds far too forced to be considered genuine. “Hey, I was thinking while you were in the shower, and I had an idea.” Bill cocks his head curiously. “You should come with me.”

“I - What?”

“You could get away with it. You said so yourself, no one ever notices when kids disappear,” Robert says. “And you would be so much happier. This town is destroying you, I can see it in your eyes.”

It’s true, everything in this godforsaken town seems to be made specifically to hurt Bill. He hates every part of it with a burning intensity. But could he really leave? All his friends are here. Does he have it in him to abandon them? After all they’ve been through?

“I don’t know,” Bill murmurs.

Robert hums quietly. “Well, think about it. Are you staying over tonight?”

“I - I shouldn’t,” Bill says. “Mm-My parents, they’ll wonder where I am. But thank you.”

“Mhm, any time.”

Home is not, by any means, better.

Dinner is stiff and awkward. They have a fancy pasta dish his mother spent nearly half the day preparing, and don’t talk through any of it.

Afterwards, Bill cleans the dishes. His mother goes back to her room to fall into a dreamless slumber, while his father remains seated at the kitchen table, his old world war 2 book held firmly in his hands. It’s the only thing he’s read since Georgie disappeared. Bill suspects it’s some sort of weird coping mechanism, a way to face his anger without having to actually admit he has emotions.

“Bill,” he says, and it’s so sudden that Bill nearly drops the glass he’s washing. “Have you done your summer reading?”

No. “Ss-Suh-Some of it.”

His father glances at his over the top of his book, a single eyebrow raised. “School’s only a few weeks away.”

“I know,” Bill says. “I’ve jj-just been distracted.”

His father sighs heavily. “Bill, I know things have been hard for you since Georgie’s death. But we all need to move on.”

“Huh-He’s not dead, dad!” Bill insists. “We don’t know that! He could still be out there-”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?” his dad snaps. “Running around the woods instead of doing your homework?”

“Dad - It’s Georgie. He’s mm-muh-more important than homework.”

The book closes with a  _ snap _ . It makes Bill flinch. He’s gone too far. He shouldn’t have said anything, he shouldn’t have fought back.

“Georgie is  _ dead _ ,” his dad says firmly. “It’s no use destroying your own life too.”

“Stan might nn-nuh-not be,” Bill says softly. “It hasn’t been nearly as long.”

His father furrows his eyebrows. “Stan? What about him?”

“He went missing, Dad,” Bill says. “Over a month ago.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. He was a good kid.”

Bill’s hands clench around the dish he’s currently trying to force into the drying rack. “Yeah. He is.”

He storms off without another word, ignoring his father’s sigh. Bill knows what he thinks. He knows he thinks he’s just being difficult. He knows he’ll never understand why Bill’s so torn up about it all.

His bed offers little comfort. It’s where he used to comfort Georgie after he had a particularly bad nightmare. It’s where he first kissed Stan. It’s where he’s cried himself to sleep, night after night.

Georgie always cried after nightmares. He would curl up in Bill’s arms and sob until he had used up all his energy and his tiny eight year old brain forced him back to sleep. Bill would stay awake the whole time, running a hand through his hair and quietly shushing him, whispering that everything would be okay.

There’s no one to hold Bill now.

The only person who’s been there to comfort him is about to leave forever.

Around two in the morning, Bill goes back downstairs.

Robert picks up the phone in a matter of seconds. “Hello?”

“When are you leaving? I ww-want to come with you.”

-

Across town, the rest of the Losers are piled into Richie’s bedroom. Now, the thing about Richie is that losing Stan had been almost as much of a slap in the face as it had been for Bill. Stan had been his closest friend since diapers, the first person outside of family he had truly felt a sense of love for.

Now he’s gone. Nothing more than a memory on a dusty “missing” sign. It infuriates him, which is why he’s dead set on proving Robert did it. He just needs answers. Something to put him at peace. Then he’ll be okay, he’s sure of it.

Currently he’s pacing back and forth, ignoring the exhausted stares of his friends.

“Bill’s become such an asshole ever since that guy showed up,” he hisses. “He would’ve never done this before.”

“Rich,” Mike groans, “We know your face hurts. But can we please go to bed?”

“No, no, no, it’s not about my face,” Richie says, waggling his finger in Mike’s general direction. “This is about everything.”

Ben, who is usually the first to fall asleep, blinks blurrily up at him. “Everything?”

“Yeah. Stan, Robert, my face-”

“We already said your face,” Mike mumbles sleepily.

“Well I never disagreed with you!” Richie snaps.

“Yes you did, you just did.”

“Babe,” Eddie pipes up, “Please just come to bed. Worrying isn’t gonna help anyone right now.”

In a flash, Richie’s sitting in front of his boyfriend’s place on the floor, legs crossed and hands gripping his ankles. “I have an idea.”

Eddie groans. “Oh God.”

“It’s a good one.”

“What is it?” Ben asks, because he’s sweet enough to entertain Richie’s ideas.

“We need to prove Robert guilty.”

Eddie buries his face in his pillow. “How? This isn’t a movie, Rich. Evidence isn’t gonna magically fall into our laps.”

“Yeah, I dunno, Rich,” Mike murmurs. “It sounds risky.”

“You haven’t even heard the plan yet!”

“Doesn’t matter, anything’s risky,” Mike says.

“I agree with Mike,” Ben says. “Sorry, Richie.”

“What - That’s not fair! I’m right! You know I’m right!”

“I agree with you, Rich.” Bev’s sitting up now, hair sleep mused and pajamas wrinkled. Richie thinks she looks like his hero. “Robert’s a monster, and no one else is gonna stop him.”

“I’m not saying you guys are wrong,” Mike says. “But there’s nothing we can do.”

“There  _ has _ to be something,” Bev says. “We can’t lose hope. We’ve already lost Stan, if we don’t do something soon we’ll lose Bill too.”

Eddie frowns, hugging his arms tightly around himself. “Sometimes I worry we’re already too late.”

“We’re not,” Bev insists. “I promise we’re not. But we do need to act fast.”

Mike sighs, and in that instant Richie knows he’s won. “What do you think we should do?”

“I have a plan,” Richie says. “It’s not the best but…”

Bev grins at him, and even through the darkness, Richie can see it clear as day. “It’s something.”

-

Robert hadn’t been happy when he found out Stan looked through his box. But he let him keep the turtle, even if he made him beg for it. Stan thinks, even with the extra cuts and bruises he’d earned because of it, it was all worth it.

The basement is cold and empty, and sometimes weirdly wet. It’s nice to have something pure to hang onto, something full of hope and childhood innocence.

The turtle, which he has lovingly named after Georgie, is always tucked under his arms. The only times he’s been without it has been when Robert has physically wrenched it away. Tragically, this has become a fairly common occurrence. Stan knows that Robert likes to see the fear in his eyes when he’s parted from it, likes to see how he squirms and begs for it back. Because, as silly as it sounds, he  _ needs _ that turtle. It’s the only thing that keeps him sane and, irrationally, he can’t help but think it keeps him safe as well.

Today, Robert lets him hold onto it as he hands him his daily sandwich.

“There’s something special about your meal today, Stanny,” Robert says. The nickname makes Stan shiver. He only calls him that when he’s in a good mood. Not that that means Robert is gonna hurt Stan any less. He’s just gonna do it with a smile on his face. “You want to know what it is?”

Stan shakes his head. He’s fucking starving, he needs to be able to eat this without finding out there’s fucking rat guts or whatever hidden between the bread. Robert answers anyway.

“Someone very special made it.”

Stan shakes his head again. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want-

“Aww, c’mon, Stanny. Billy worked so hard on them.”

And, somehow, that is so much worse than anything Stan could have imagined. “I don’t - I don’t understand. Bill knows I’m here?”

Robert lets out a loud boisterous laugh. “Absolutely not. You think Billy knows about any of  _ this _ ? No, I’ll have to build up to that. He wouldn’t understand quite yet.”

Stan stares down at the sandwich in his hands. He hasn’t had contact with any of his friends in what feels like years, even something as simple as a sandwich feels like a million dollars.

And it wasn’t just any of them who made it, it was  _ Bill _ . Bill who would hold him when he was scared, and still hold him when he wasn’t. Bill who would let him curl into his side as he read his latest story, in that soft voice reserved only for Stan. Bill who accepted him graciously for who he was.

The same hands that drew him closer during his first kiss, were the hands that made this. It’s a horrible thought, that a memory he held onto so dearly could be tainted so quickly. But he supposes with Robert’s track record, he shouldn’t be surprised.

“Aww, don’t look so glum,” Robert coos. “You should be happy you even got one. The rest are all back at my house. But I figured this would make a good last meal.”

In a flash, Stan’s eyes are back on Robert. “Last - Last meal?”

Robert lets out a loud sigh, as if the topic actually pains him. As if anything could. “Well, you see, Stanny boy. Billy and I have decided to move away.”

“Bill and you?” Stan repeats, head starting to grow fuzzy.

“It’s a big step!” Robert grins. “But I think-” Robert stops dead, jaw hung open, as the sandwich connects with his face. Stan’s on his feet now, hands curled into fists by his side, one with nails biting into the soft flesh of his palm, the other clenching around Georgie the Turtle.

“Bill’s not your fucking boyfriend,” he spits. “And someday he’s gonna realize that. It doesn’t matter how brutally you kill me. Someday he’s gonna realize he deserves better, and then you’ll be alone again.”

Stan knows he’s fucked up. He can see it in Robert’s eyes, the way they darken until the whites of his eyes are almost invisible. Even with the strawberry jelly smeared across his face, he looks terrifying. But Stan can’t bring himself to care. He’s going to die anyway.

“Bill is going to be my good little fuck toy for as long as I want,” Robert snarls. He’s advancing on Stan. And Stan desperately wants to give in, wants to drop to his knees and beg for his life. But if there are his last moments, he’s not going to spend them at some old creep’s feet. “ _ I  _ will decide when we’re done.  _ I _ will decide when I’m finished with him.”

“You can try to convince yourself as much as you like, but we both know Bill’s smarter than that. He’ll figure it out eventually.”

Robert chuckles lowly. “You haven’t seen how well he takes my cock. Haven’t seen how pretty he cries for me.” It isn’t necessarily true, Stan’s seen the photos, he’s heard the stories. It’s one of Robert’s favorite ways to make Stan squirm. But Robert’s much too angry to remember such details. “I know you wish it was you, Stanley. But we can’t all be that lucky. Billy’s  _ mine _ . And he always will be.” Stan hisses as Robert grips a handful of his hair, yanking his head back until their eyes are forced to connect. “Do you understand?” Stan grits his teeth. He can’t give him the satisfaction. “ _ I said do you understand? _ ”

Stan spits a large glob of spit directly between Robert’s eyes. “ _ Fuck you _ .”

Robert releases Stan’s curls in favor of wiping the spit off his face. “You’re a real menace, you know that? God, I can’t wait to get rid of you.” He rips Georige the Turtle out of Stan’s arms, earning himself a shriek in response. He only pulls it away further when Stan tries to lunge for it. “You know what Billy’s gonna do when we finally get to our new apartment? He’s gonna let me fuck him on every surface available. Again, and again, and again. That’s all he’ll ever do. This town put too much pressure on him, made him hurt. I’ll be there to soothe the pain away.”

Stan snarls. “You’re gonna fuck the saddness out of him?”

Despite the biting tone of his voice, Robert hums as if this is exactly what he means. “He’ll forget all about this place.”

Stan steels his gaze. “You’re a monster.”

Robert sinks the knife between his ribs not a second later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I don't know why our boys must suffer so much.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to leave a comment, I love hearing your thoughts!
> 
> Tumblr:  
> Fanfic/IT: @s-oulpunk  
> Main: @im-a-rocketman


	3. The Disappearance of Robert Gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve been thinking, maybe we should leave sooner.”
> 
> Bill blinks slowly. “Sooner?”
> 
> “Yeah, if we get everything packed. No point in waiting, right?” Robert grins at him over the mess of boxes. “You said it yourself, you hate this shithole.”
> 
> Bill chews nervously on his lower lip. “How ss-suh-soon?”
> 
> “Tonight?”

At the same time Robert Gray is watching the life flicker in and out of Stanley Uris’ eyes, and Bill Denbrough is scavenging his room for items to bring on his cross country road trip, the remaining Losers are pulling up to a tall, looming apartment building.

Eddie wrinkles his nose at the sight. “This place? Are you sure?

Richie nods. “I’m positive.”

“I don’t like it,” Eddie murmurs. “There’s something...off about it.”

“It has awful design flaws,” Ben says, kicking his bike to the ground with a scoff. “You would think even a child murderer would have some fucking taste.”

“Really?” Eddie huffs. “That’s what’s important? The fucking murderer’s fashion sense?”

“We don’t know he’s a murderer for sure,” Mike says, picking his words carefully. “We might be wrong.”

But there’s something deep in their bones that tells them they’re not.

“C’mon,” murmurs Bev, who has been suspiciously quiet the entire trip over. “Let’s get this over with.”

“What exactly do you guys expect to do?” Eddie hisses, hurrying to catch up with his friends as they climb the staircase to Robert’s floor. “It’s not like he’s gonna leave anything just lying around in his apartment. You’re gonna have to tear that thing apart, and then your fingerprints will be all over it. And then what? And then he finds you and, boom, you’re dead!”

Ben glances at him curiously. “I dunno if that’s how it works.”

“It is, trust me,” Eddie says. “Now, do you guys really-”

Richie turns sharply, nearly sending the teenagers behind him toppling to the bottom of the staircase.

“Eddie,” he hisses. “You knew what you were getting yourself into. You can either come or you can stay behind, but do  _ not _ try to stop us.”

Eddie holds his hands up in a weak surrender. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “You just have to be cautious.”

“I know that!” Richie exclaims incredulously. “But we don’t have the fucking luxury-”

“Rich,” Mike cuts him off sharply, one hand coming to rest on Eddie’s stiff-as-a-board shoulder. “Surely we don’t all need to go into his apartment? Isn’t there anywhere else we can look?”

“There should be storage down in the basement,” Ben pipes up.

“Great, Eddie and I will look down there,” Mike says, already steering Eddie back down the stairs. “We’ll meet back out front, alright?”

Despite his previous anger, Richie looks almost nervous as he watches them disappear around the banister. “Are we sure that’s a smart idea? Splitting up like that? Isn’t that horror movie 101?”

“We’ll cover more ground that way,” Bev says. “It’s smart.” When Richie still doesn’t appear appeased, she sighs softly. “This isn’t a horror film, they’ll be fine. Now c’mon, we don’t know how much time we have.”

As the trio continues their trek up the stairs, Mike and Eddie can be found poking their way around the lobby. The basement door is fairly easy to find, a dark green door placed firmly against the back wall. Only problem, it’s firmly locked.

“We must need a key,” Mike says, softly jiggling the handle.

Eddie furrows his eyebrows, tongue darting out to wet his lips nervously. “I think I can get in.”

Mike turns to him hopefully. “You can?”

“Yeah. Just wait a second.” Eddie disappears around the corner, reappearing a moment later with one of those cushy lobby chairs. “Okay, stand back.”

“Wha - Eddie,  _ no _ !”

“Why not?” Eddie asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“ _ Why? _ Because you can’t!” Mike exclaims. “First of all, you’re about to collapse under the weight of that thing. Second of all, there’s no way it’ll work! It’ll just cause a mess and draw attention to us!”

Eddie doesn’t drop the chair. “Do you have a better idea?”

To be fair, Mike does  _ not _ have a better idea.

“Alright, fuck it,” Mike huffs. “Give me that.”

Eddie hesitantly hands over the chair. Mike wrestles with it for a second before swinging it around and bringing it against the door, just under the doorknob, with a  _ thud _ .

The door starts to splinter under the weight, but so does the chair. And it’s still not enough to actually get inside.

“Shit, okay. Stand back.”

“Why? What are you-” Eddie cuts himself off with a shriek as Mike gives the door one good kick. It jostles the door enough that a harsh push leaves it swinging open. “Jesus christ, man.”

“It was your idea,” Mike says with a shrug.

The basement is cold, cold enough to make Mike physically shiver, and smells vaguely of damp mold. Mike quickly decides he doesn’t like it.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Eddie murmurs. “I mean, could they at least put a light or something down here? I’m gonna fucking kill myself walking down these stairs.”

“There’s one at the bottom of the stairs,” Mike says, even though he isn’t truly sure.

Luckily, he’s proven right after a successful amount of fumbling alongside the wall. There’s a small light switch just to the left of the stairs, and it bathes the basement in a dull, cold light.

“There are so many boxes,” Mike murmurs.

“Yeah, that’s what people put in basements,” Eddie says, voice high and snippy.

“Right, but,” Mike’s eyes flit over the contents, “how do we know which ones are Roberts?”

This makes Eddie pause. “I - I think they’re labeled.

“Some of them,” Mike murmurs. “Some have the room numbers.” He glances nervous at Eddie. “Do we know Robert’s apartment number?”

Eddie shakes his head. “Richie said he was on the third floor.”

“Well, that’s something,” Mike mumbles. “Look through anything labeled from the third floor. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Eddie nods dutifully and drops to his knees, popping open the nearest box. Mike crosses to the opposite side before doing the same. By the time they meet in the middle, they still haven’t found anything worthwhile.

“At least we know what a million random people’s family photo albums look like,” Mike sighs.

“This is stupid,” Eddie grumbles. “There’s nothing about Stan here!”

“Maybe the others had better luck upstairs,” Mike says.

“Maybe.” Eddie sighs as he reaches for the last box. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Yeah, me either.” Mike peers curiously over Eddie’s shoulder. “What’s in there?”

“Just a lot of fucking tissue paper.”

“What the fuck?” Mike leans over, pulling handfuls of tissue paper out of the box. “That’s not - Who the fuck would do that?”

“A psychopath,” Eddie grumbles.

“But, it doesn’t - Wait! There’s something here!” From amongst the tissue paper, Mike reveals a simple looking key.

“Do you think it’s Robert’s?” Eddie asks.

“Dunno,” Mike says. “Could be. Or it could just be some random person’s key we’re stealing.”

“I’m willing to take that risk.”

-

As Mike and Eddie struggle to open the basement door, three stories up Bev is picking the lock to Robert’s front door.

“Hurry up,” Richie whispers. “We can’t let anyone see us.”

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Bev hisses. “It’s not exactly the easier thing in the world.”

“You’re doing great!” Ben insists.

“Thank you,” Bev says, trying not to preen too much in light of the compliment.

“You  _ are _ doing great,” Richie says. “But also we don’t have a lot of time and-”

“I get it!” Bev snaps. “Just relax, alright? We won’t get caught. And if we do I have the perfect cover story, we’ll just say - Got it!” She gives the door a gentle push, watching with a sort of pride as it creaks open.

“Marsh, you genius!” Richie grins.

“Oh, where would you be without me?” Bev says with a teasing smirk.

Ben shuts the door behind them, the quiet  _ click _ of the lock sounding not unlike a nail in a coffin.

“What are we looking for exactly?” Ben asks.

“Anything that might lead us to Stan,” Richie says. “It probably won't be lying around, we’ll have to dig. So be careful. Don’t mess anything up too much, okay? Looking at you, Haystack. I’ve seen your room. It’s a mess.”

“Right,” Ben says. “But how do we know what leads to Stan?”

Richie shrugs pathetically. “You’ll just...know.”

“That’s a terrible answer,” Bev says with a roll of her eyes. “Just keep your eyes peeled, okay?”  
Ben nods and slips into the bedroom. “Hey!” he cries out a moment later. “Guys, come look at this!”

When Bev and Richie meet him in the room a moment later, they’re met with the sight of boxes upon boxes piling up on themselves.

“He must be moving,” Ben says. “It might make it easier to look through everything.”

“Thank God,” Richie grumbles. “Maybe Bill will be able to pull his head out of his ass once he’s gone.”

Bev lets out a huff in agreement. “I don’t want that creep in our town anymore.” She nods towards the boxes. “C’mon.”

Only half the boxes are packed, but they’re still a massive hassle to get through. Filled to the brim with clothes and bedding, they take forever to search, and yet there’s nothing of interest in them.

“Maybe we were wrong,” Ben mutters. “There’s nothing in any of these.”

“There’s plenty of stuff that hasn’t been packed yet!” Richie insists. “There’s - There’s still - There are still a lot of places he could be hiding something!”

Ben glances nervously towards the door. “We don’t have a lot of time-”  
“We have to take the risk!” Richie says. “We can’t just abandon Stan-”

“I didn’t say anything about abandoning Stan!” Ben snaps. “We’re all his friends too. But we won’t be any help to him if Robert catches us.”

“We’ll keep a lookout,” Bev says. “I’ll go first. Someone switch with me in a few minutes.”

If they were lucky, Robert would have a window overlooking the front door, but his apartment is on the opposite side of the building. Instead, Bev goes out into the hall and overlooks the banister, leaning down to star at the spiral staircase below her.

Meanwhile, Ben and Richie are tearing apart Robert’s apartment.

“Why are you looking in the kitchen?” Ben hisses. “There isn’t going to be anything there!”

Richie continues to dig through the drawers. “This is the last place anyone would look!”

“Yes because it makes no sense-”

“Just go check the bedroom again!”

They’re in no position to be wasting time arguing, so Ben goes. Richie’s already checked every crevice of this damn room, but Ben doesn’t mind re-checking. A new pair of eyes never hurt.

The closet is already mostly cleared out. The cabinets are filled with useless junk. And his bedside table has nothing but reading glasses and an old, half-dead alarm clock on it. All perfectly innocent.

But Ben has no doubts that Robert is the reason Stan has disappeared. The man always made him feel cold, like someone had just replaced all the blood in his veins with ice water. So, in a last ditch effort, he ducks down and reaches his hand under the bed.

It’s mostly dust bunnies and trash - old candy wrappers and the such - but a small brown box stands out amongst the garbage. Ben swipes it up as quickly as he can, and settles down with his legs crossed and back against the bed before carefully popping it open. He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but to say that he’s let down is an understatement.

The only thing in the box is a small camera.

With a huff, Ben closes the box and shoves it under the bed. So much for that idea.

Ben’s halfway out the door when he realizes how strange it is to hide a camera under one’s bed. Surely something so innocent could be placed somewhere more convenient. Of course, it could have been something he had packed and had simply accidentally kicked under the bed but…

Ben snatches the box back into his arms as quickly as he can. With bated breath, he turns the camera on.

“Oh,  _ fuck _ ,” he whispers. Then, as he scrambles to his feet and practically throws himself across the apartment, “Rich! Richie! Richie, look at this!”

Just down the hall, Beverly is half considering grabbing a cigarette. Smoke alarms be damned. She’s never been so bored in all her life.

She’s just starting to toy with the idea of keeping watch out front when someone starts to ascend the stairs. She can’t see them clearly at first, just a human shaped blob at the bottom of the stairs, but as he gets closer, he becomes painfully recognizable.

Bev risks a glance down the hall. Robert’s door is still wide open, and the shuffling inside is clear as day. Before she can second guess herself, she raises her arm in a friendly wave and shouts out, “Robert!”

It catches his attention, and she can only pray it catches Ben and Richie’s as well. She scurries down the stairs, stopping him just a flight below his floor.

Robert grins at her. “Beverly, right?”

“Mhm, that’s me! What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” he gestures just up the stairs.

“Shit, no kidding!” Bev says. “Do you like it? My aunt and I are thinking about moving.”

“Oh, well that’s great!” Robert exclaims. “You’ll like it here, it’s cozy.”

Bev hums, doing her best to appear interested. “Just what we’re looking for.”

“Would you like to come in?”

_ Shit _ . “Ah - Better not. Wish I could, but I’m just on my way out now.”

Robert nods. “Well, it was very nice to see you.”

He only manages to make it one more step before Bev turns on him again. “Wait! I - Uh - I have more questions! About - About the laundry room. Do the machines work?”

Robert gives her a weird look. “Do they - Of course they work. Why wouldn’t they work?”

Bev shrugs. “Half the washing machines in my old building didn’t work. Guess I’m paranoid now.” From over Robert’s shoulder, she can see Ben and Richie scrambling over each other as they make their way frantically down the stairs. “That’s it. You just reminded me because you’ve got something,” she gestures vaguely, “On your shirt.”

For the first time, Robert appears almost nervous. He chuckles awkwardly as he fumbles with his arms, hurrying to cover the browning spots. “Had a bloody nose earlier. I’ll be sure to wash it out.”

Bev grins. “Cool.”

Ben and Richie come to a halting stop right behind Robert, Ben fumbling with something behind his back.

“Mister Gray,” he says, plastering on a polite smile. “Nice to see you again.”

“Oh, you as well,” Robert says. “Helping Beverly with house hunting?”

Ben nods. “Yes sir.”

“Well, that’s very sweet. I’ll be sure to see you around, kids.” With a wave, he disappears up the stairs.

Mike and Eddie are waiting for them just outside the front door, looking almost as stressed as Bev feels.

“Thank fuck, you’re okay,” Eddie blurts out. “I was so-”

“Clubhouse. Now,” Bev says, effectively cutting off his rambling.

The last time they were in the clubhouse, Bill had thrown his notebook at Richie’s face. It leaves a bad taste in the air. And though none of them mention it, they’re all thinking about it. His notebook is still lying there, dusty and alone, on the floor. None of them pick it up.

“What did you find?” Bev asks, settling down on the floor. The present Losers settle around her, forming a small circle.

“Mikey and I found a key!” Eddie says. “Mike, show them the key!”

“I’m getting there,” Mike says with an amused smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes like it used to. He fishes around in his pocket, leaving Eddie to bounce impatiently beside him. Finally, he tosses the key into the center of the circle. It’s nothing too spectacular, long and spindly and a shade of charcoal black, but it still manages to capture their attention.

“We don’t know where it goes,” Eddie says, eyes wide with wonder.

“We don’t even know if it’s Robert’s,” Mike adds with a soft sigh.

“What kind of person leaves a key in a basement?” Richie says, scrunching up his nose.

“Maybe it’s a spare or something,” Ben shrugs.

Richie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but even then, why wouldn’t he just leave it in his apartment?”

“Because he doesn’t want guests to find it,” Bev says softly. Then, louder, “Bill goes over to his apartment, right? If this key does lead back to Stan, he doesn’t want to risk him finding it.”

“Yeah, okay, sure,” Mike says. “But we still don’t know  _ where _ it goes.”

“Actually, we might.” Ben’s hands tighten around the camera. “We - Um - Well-”

“Everything on there is _ fucked up _ ,” Richie interrupts, loud enough to make his friends jump.

“Yeah,” Ben says, face flushing. “But - Um - It might have some hints about where Stan is.”

“Show us!” Bev shouts hurriedly.

Ben clicks on the camera.

The violence in the photos is nothing like the violence on TV. There’s no perfectly smeared blood, painted on by the makeup department. There’s no leading actor, defiance sparkling in their eyes even after a good old punch to the face from the villain. All there is is a boy, scared and alone. There’s blood - God, there’s so much blood - and there seems to be a new bruise with every photo. Eddie actually gags a handful of times.

“Jesus Christ,” Mike mutters.

“There was blood on Robert’s shirt,” Bev whispers. “He was just - He was  _ just _ with Stan. We have to - We have to go!  _ Right now _ !”

“Does anyone know where these are?” Ben asks pleadingly. “The walls are old, we need to find-”

“Neibolt!” Eddie blurts. “That creepy house on the outskirts of town! Fuck, why didn’t we figure it out before? No one would look there! It would be the perfect place to hide him!”

“Are you sure?” Richie asks, eyes wide.

Eddie swipes the camera from Ben, quickly skimming through the photos. “Well, no, but I’m  _ almost _ sure. Maybe there are other hints -  _ Oh _ .  _ Fuck _ .”

“What?” Bev’s at his side in a flash. In his hands, Stan has disappeared from the photographs. Instead Bill is looking up at the camera, wide-eyed and faux innocent, as sticky white strips coat his face. “Oh, fuck.” She snatches the camera from Eddie’s hands. “We probably don’t need to look anymore.” Eddie nods, still looking lost and rather frightened. “You said - Um - You said Neibolt house, right?” Eddie nods again. “Great. Let’s go.”

The Losers scramble to their feet, reeking of nervous energy as they climb the ladder one by one. Bev goes last, loving tucking the camera and Bill’s notebook into the far corner of the clubhouse before following the boys out into the world awaiting them.

-

As the Losers are peddling their bikes across town, Bill is ascending the stairs of the same apartment building they had only just vacated. He had stopped knocking long ago, and simply slips the key out from under the cheerful welcome mat before letting himself inside.

Robert’s in the kitchen, loading plates and utensils into carefully labeled boxes. Bill sidesteps around him, offering a grin as he hops up to sit on the barren counter.

“Aren’t you gg-guh-gonna need any of this stuff before we leave?”

“Eh, I’ll leave a few out,” Robert says with a shrug. “But I have to pack them sometime. Hey, pass me those bowls, will ya. Make yourself useful.” Bill rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told. “Thanks. Hey, some of your friends were here today.”

Bill furrows his eyebrows. “They were?”

“Well, not  _ here _ here. But here, in the building. I ran into them in the hall. Your little redhead friend? Beverly? Apparently she’s moving.”

“I didn’t know sh-she was moving,” Bill murmurs.

“Oh?” Robert eyes him carefully. “Does she know _you’re_ moving?”

“Well,” Bill squirms in his seat, “No.”

Robert hums softly. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

Bill kicks his feet gently as he waits for Robert to return. The apartment, which Bill had come to think of as his one steady constant in life, looks completely different. Everything in life is always changing so goddamn fast, half the time Bill can’t even keep up. But the apartment has always been there. It’s always looked the same. Same beige walls, same hardwood floors, same obnoxious green couch. But now even that is coming apart. It looks almost like an alien planet with all the boxes strewn about. Still, Bill can’t help but feel that this may be for the best.

“Hey,” Robert says, tossing aside a small, empty box as he re-enters the room. “I have a surprise for you.”

Bill’s eyes snap up to meet the older man’s, wide and curious. “Yuh-Yuh-You do?”

“Mhm. Close your eyes.”

Bill feels himself deflate. Because he knows what that means. First will come the hands on his hips, then the fingers working at the button of his jeans, then-

“Hold out your hands.”

Or maybe not.

Something soft and plush meets Bill’s palms. His fingers curl around it instinctively, bringing the object close to his chest. “Can I oh-open my eyes now?”

Robert barks out a laugh. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Bill’s eyes flutter open. In his hands sits a plushie turtle, eyes wide and cartoony, and fins thin and droopy. It’s a little dirty, and some of the stuffing is spilling out of a rip between the shell and the neck, but there’s no doubting what it is.

“Huh-Holy shit,” Bill whispers. “This wuh-wuh-was Juh-Juh-Geor-Geor -  _ Fuck _ \- Georgie’s.”

“Yeah? I thought it might be. I found it in the woods the other day. Figured I’d do one last routine search before we left.”

Bill turns his gaze back to Robert, even if he’s a little blurry through the wall of unshed tears glistening in his eyes. “R-R-Really?”

“Mhm. But this was all I found.”

“I don’t understand h-huh-how we could have mm-muh-missed it,” Bill says. “We’ve ll-luh-looked there a thousand tt-tuh-times.”

“Must’ve just missed it.”

“Thank you,” Bill says. “Really, th-thank you. I didn’t think I wuh-would ever get any part of him back again.” A grin wide enough to split his face tugs at his lips. “And I r-r-remember this little guy so well, Georgie used to b-bruh-bring him everywhere. He was his favorite.” He pulls the turtle closer, wrapping it in a protective hug, as he stares up at Robert. “I dd-duh-don’t know how to thank you.”

Robert lets his hand drop down onto Bill’s thigh. “I can think of one way.”

He’s barely had time to blink before Bill is hopping off the counter and dropping to his knees.

-

Bill’s always quiet afterwards, and this time is no different. But he feels less cold inside, as if the turtle is physically offering him warmth. He can’t help but think it’s filling some Georgie-sized hole in his heart.

Robert doesn’t seem to notice Bill’s silence. Or, if he does, he doesn’t care enough to act on it. He returns to packing boxes as if nothing happened, letting Bill sit silently with his back against the kitchen counter.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable per say, but it’s definitely not the same warm silence that surrounds Bill and his friends. It’s thick, as if Bill could cut it with a knife. In fact, it almost feels as if that’s the only way to get through it.

Robert, however, must speak words as sharp as a knife, because a moment later he says, “I’ve been thinking, maybe we should leave sooner.”

Bill blinks slowly. “Sooner?”

“Yeah, if we get everything packed. No point in waiting, right?” Robert grins at him over the mess of boxes. “You said it yourself, you hate this shithole.”

Bill chews nervously on his lower lip. “How ss-suh-soon?”

“Tonight?”

“ _ Tt-Tuh-Tonight? _ ” Bill splutters.

“Mhm. Better than staying here any longer, right?”

“I - I haven’t said buh-bye to my friends yet,” Bill says. “I can’t jj-juh-just - I can’t just ah-abandon them like that.”

Robert sighs heavily. “Bill, you need to allow yourself to think about yourself sometimes. You shouldn’t live your life worrying about your friends, you need to remember what’s healthy for you.”

Bill squirms, teeth sinking harshly into his lower lip. “I sh-should still say bye.”

“You can call whenever we make our first stop,” Robert shrugs.

“It’s nuh-not the same.”

“Alright, kid, it’s up to you, but if I were you, I would want to get out of this shithole as fast as I could.”

“Yeah,” Bill murmurs. “I guess.”

“Tonight?”

Bill hugs the turtle tighter. “Yeah. Tonight.”

Robert grins. “I think this will be good for you. You’re going to be so much happier once we get out of this place.”

Bill nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I - I ffff-fucking hate it here. The sooner w-wuh-we leave the better.”

-

Neibolt is, to put it nicely, disgusting. The front lawn is overgrown with weeds so thick it’s nearly impossible to walk through them. They catch on the Losers’ socks, doing their best to pull them down to the ground with spindly plant claws. The house itself is worse. Dust can be seen even through the cracks in the boarded up windows, and the wood around the door has decayed so much it’s a shock the door hasn’t fallen clean off its hinges yet.

“We’re gonna die in there,” Eddie bemoans. “The roof is gonna collapse on us. We’ll suffocate on the fucking dust. We’ll never make it out.”

“We’ll be fine, Eds,” Ben says. He softly intertwines their fingers, squeezing once. “We’ll make sure you come out alive.”

Eddie still looks shaken up, but he murmurs a quiet, “Thank you,” and then doesn’t say another word as Bev pushes the door open.

The inside of the house is worse than the outside. Spiderwebs the size of their heads cling to the ceiling, wallpaper peels from the walls like old hangnails, the entire house smells overwhelmingly of mildew. Eddie can’t help but scuttle minisculely closer to Ben.

“God, is this really where Stan’s been for the last month?” Mike murmurs, looking around in a sort of horrified amazement.

“Oh yeah, I was totally expecting him to be set up in a fucking five star hotel,” Richie snarks. Mike shoots him a sideways glance, earning himself a soft, “Sorry.”

“Everyone spread out,” Bev says. “Ben and Eddie, you stay on this floor. Richie, check upstairs. Mike and I will check the basement.”

Richie salutes her. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Will Richie be okay by himself?” Mike asks, watching as Richie disappears up the stairs. “Maybe Ben and Eddie should go with him.”

“He’ll call for help if he needs it,” Bev says. She shoots Mike a sideways glance. “Are you okay going into the basement? Because you can switch with-”

“No, I’m fine,” Mike says. “The basement can’t be worse than the rest of this shithole.”

The basement does, however, have an actual door. Not a decrepit moldy one they can kick down, but an actual door complete with a lock and everything.

“The key,” Bev whispers. “Do you have the key?”

“Yeah,” Mike scrambles for the key. “Yeah, I have it. It’s right - right here.” He slides it into the lock with surprising ease, a cold settling over him as he turns it.

The door opens with a creak, and though it seems as if it echoes throughout the entire house, no one comes running.

The bottom of the stairs is pitch black. It activates Mike’s fight or flight response, sending cold chills down his back and making his breath shake with every exhale. It feels like walking into an alternate dimension.

“We need a light,” Mike whispers, because whispering feels like the right thing to do right now.

“I think I saw one,” Bev whispers right back. “Just hang on.”

She scurries away, returning with a lamp less than a minute later. When she switches it on, the light is dim, barely illuminating a foot in front of them, but it’s better than nothing. She clutches it in her right hand as she descends the stairs. In her left hand she grips Mike’s hand, squeezing hard enough to leave little half-moon marks with her nails. Mike doesn’t mind though. His hold on her hand is just as tight.

The stairs feel like a death sentence. As if once they descend them they’ll never truly come back up. And maybe that’s true. Maybe a part of them, that last shred of childhood innocent, will die down here. They’ll come back up different people. Still, they continue on.

For a second, once they’ve reached the bottom, they do nothing but stand there and squint into the darkness. The thought of being swallowed up by the darkness is almost worse than merely descending the stairs.

But Mike forces himself to make that first step forward and from then on, armed with their trusty shitty lamp, they brave the darkness.

“Stan?” Bev whispers. “Stan, are you down here?”

“Stanley?” Mike says. “Stan, it’s - it’s us. Mike and Bev. We’re - We’ve been looking for you.”

“The others are here too,” Bev says. “Upstairs. We’ve all been - been looking.”

Their words, however nice it is to say them, are not answered. It makes the cold basement air seep deeper into their sink, crawling its way into their hearts.

“I’m sorry we didn’t find you soon enough,” Mike says, voice cracking. “I love you.”

“I don’t think he’s here,” Bev murmurs.

“But that - But that doesn’t make any sense,” Mike says, voice rising with every word. “He was - He was supposed to be h-here. We - I don’t -  _ Where is he, Bevvy _ ?” Sobs bounce off the walls as he finally crumples, knees hitting the dirty, blood-stained floor.

“I don’t know,” Bev says, quick to comfort her friend. “I don’t know, Mikey. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was so sure he was here. I was so sure-” She stops suddenly, feeling not unlike the wind has been knocked out of her. A scream is stuck in her throat, lodged just behind her tongue. She needs desperately to get it out, to tell Mike, but it refuses to budge.

“But he has to be  _ somewhere _ ,” Mike says, shoulders still shaking. He scrubs furiously at his eyes, hoping it lessens the tears. It only makes them dribble down between his fingers. “He can’t just - He can’t be  _ gone _ . He can’t-”

Bev screams. She screams so loud, Mike shoots to his feet, the tears pushed to the back of his mind as his defense mode takes over.

“What?” he cries out. “What is it?”

Bev points a shaky hand, gasping for air as she struggles to find the words. Finally she decides on simply, “ _ Stanley! _ ”

Mike nearly breaks his neck trying to see where she’s pointing. There isn’t much visible through the darkness, but there is no doubt that the vague outline of a person can be seen laying on the floor.

“Shit,” Mike whispers. “ _ Shit! _ ” He scrambles to the person’s side, his breath catching in his throat as the face becomes clear. “Stan!  _ Stanley! _ Oh, holy shit. Can you hear us? Stan?” He goes to shake his shoulder, but Stan’s body is limp and unresponsive. And when Mike pulls his hand away, it’s slick with a sticky, deep red substance.

“Oh my God,” Bev whispers. She sounds broken, completely shattered. Mike wishes he could put her back together again. If he could, he would. Even if it meant spending years painstakingly gluing every miniscule shard into place. But he thinks there may simply be too many shards and not enough years.

“Stan,” Mike says. “Stan, c’mon. Talk to me,  _ please _ talk to me.” He presses two fingers to Stan’s neck, trying his best to stay calm despite how Stan’s head lolls to the side. “C’mon, Stan,” he murmurs. “Please. Please, please,  _ please _ .” A heartbeat pounds under his fingertips. It’s faint, but there’s no doubt that it’s there. Mike turns to Bev with wild eyes. “We need to get him to a hospital.”

“Wh -  _ He’s okay? _ ”

“Absolutely not,” Mike says, already struggling to get Stan in his arms. “But he’s not dead yet either. C’mon, help me carry him.”

He looks worse in the light.

He’s almost entirely covered in blood, the substance still oozing from more cuts than Mike can count. His hair, which is usually so cared for, is a matted mess on his head. He’s covered in grime and dirt, and his clothes, which are the same ones he went missing in, have been reduced to shreds of fabric clinging to his malnourished body.

Mike lays him down on the porch, resting his head in his lap. He rakes his fingers through his mess of curls, doing his best to brush through the tangled mess.

Richie’s on his other side, struggling to keep his glasses from fogging up as he clings to Stan’s hand and babbles on about the past two months. Mike isn’t sure what he’s saying, he suspects Richie isn’t even completely sure, but it seems to be keeping him from spiralling, so who is Mike so stop him?

“We need to get him to a hospital,” Eddie says, eyes wide and full of terror. “We need - We need to call an ambulance.”

“We’ll run to the nearest house,” Bev says, already halfway to the gates. “Ask to use their phone. The rest of you, stay with Stan. Don’t let anything happen.”

“We’ll keep him safe,” Ben promises, because Mike and Richie are too preoccupied to answer. “He’ll be okay. Promise.”

Bev offers them one last wistful glance, before disappearing down the sidewalk. Eddie catches up with her quickly, and soon they’re sprinting down the road. Ben watches until they’re out of sight, a sick, twisting feeling panging in his gut.

He goes to sit in front of the porch, not caring if his pants get dirt on them, and rests his hand on Stan’s chest, watching its shallow rise and fall. His touch is gentle, as if he’s worried Stan might fall apart. But, honestly, with the state he’s in, Ben wouldn’t be surprised if he  _ did _ fall apart.

All he can think, as he watches the empty street before them, is,  _ please hurry _ .

-

The hospital sets them all on edge. But Eddie more so than the others. All his life he’s  _ hated _ the smell of hospitals. It makes his stomach sick. But he’s learned not to voice this to his mother, who will only use that as an excuse to keep him there longer.

Still, the hospital never seemed like more than a minor nuisance. Somewhere he had to go to please his mother, but was never truly a threat. Today, though, the hospital has never seemed more daunting.

Stanley is just down the hall, locked behind a heavy, ugly grey door. Eddie doesn’t know what’s happening, none of them do, but judging by the horrified faces the nurses made upon seeing him, it isn’t good. They’ve been there for nearly an hour, bathed in a heavy silence, when Eddie finally speaks up. “We should call Bill.”

His voice, though soft as a whisper, feels ear-shatteringly loud. It makes all the Losers look at him, and in their eyes he can see the same exhaustion and fear he feels himself.

He half expects them to argue. They haven’t been on the best of terms with Bill lately, anyway. But no one does. Not even Richie, who looks like he’s just about ready to combust every time Bill’s name is brought up.

“I’ll do it,” Mike offers. “You guys wait here.”

“No,” Eddie insists, stumbling to his feet. “I’ll do it.” Mike still has blood on his clothes. Mike has been staring at the same spot on the wall for the past forty five minutes. Mike deserves to rest. “I’ve known Bill since we were kids. The news should come from me.”

Mike nods, already slumping back down in his chair.

Eddie hates to leave his friends. He hates to walk these halls himself. He hates the small possibility that he could miss an update on Stan. But someone has to go.

The phone is just down the hall, but by the time he reaches it, he feels like a lifetime has passed. He punches in Bill’s number wearily, hand feeling heavy with the effort.

“Huh-Hello?”

Eddie breathes a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t have been able to handle talking to Bill’s parents at the moment.

“Hey, Bill,” he says. “We - Um - The Losers and I are at the hospital.”

“What? Wh-Why?”

“We - Um - We found Stan.”

-

Bill has spent every moment since getting back from Robert’s throwing all his belongings into his old, ratty suitcases. The sight of his room growing slowly emptier is tying his stomach up in knots. He wants to leave, he does. But he’s never travelled further than Portland, and even then he couldn’t have been older than nine.

The world is so big. He could travel forever and ever, and still always have more to see. It’s terrifying. But the thought is thrilling too. He wants to see Los Angeles. He wants to go to New York. He wants to travel to Australia. He just wants to get the fuck out of Derry.

But he does wish he could say goodbye to his friends. He had hoped there would be time today, but he’s supposed to meet Robert back at his apartment in just under a half hour. It just won’t be a possibility.

It’s sad, but he tries his best to shake it off. They would only try to talk him out of it anyway. They wouldn’t understand.

The turtle - Bill can’t remember its name and he can’t bear to make up a new one - sits on top of his dresser. It has the biggest eyes Bill has ever seen, and he can’t help but be reminded of the puppy dog look Georgie used to give him when he wanted  _ just one more _ bedtime story or  _ just a little bit _ of Lucky Charms.

With a sigh, Bill scoops the turtle into his arms, cradling it safely against his chest. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find you. I tried, I ss-swuh-swear.”

The turtle, much as is expected, does not reply. And if he were going to, he would have never had the chance, because the phone rings right at that moment.

Bill stumbles down the hall, nearly tripping over two separate boxes, in his haste to reach the phone. “Huh-Hello?”

“Hey, Bill,” Eddie’s voice floats through the speaker. “We - Um - The Losers and I are at the hospital.”

“What?” Bill cries out, panic flooding his veins. “Wh-Why?”

“We - Um - We found Stan.”

Air catches in Bill’s lungs, pushing down on his chest and choking his windtunnel. He’s suffocating, drowning in a sea of emotions he doesn’t quite understand, yet he still manages to squeak out a soft, “What?”

“Yeah. He - He-” Eddie sniffles on the other end. “It’s not good, Bill. I don’t know - I don’t know if he’s gonna-”

“He’ll be okay,” Bill says automatically. “He’s gonna be fine, Eddie. Stan - Stan’s strong. He’ll make it.”

“Yeah,” Eddie mutters, voice still sounding heavy with tears. “Yeah, okay.” He sniffles again. “Please hurry.”

“I’m on my wuh-way,” Bill promises.

The hospital is across town, and by the time Bill reaches it his legs are burning. But he pays it no mind, simply tossing his bike to the side and rushing inside. The other Losers are clumped together in a waiting room, not a peep coming from any of them.

Eddie sees him first, and before Bill can blink he’s throwing himself into his arms and burying his face in his neck.

“Thank God you’re here,” Eddie whispers. “I was so worried you wouldn’t pick up, and then I wouldn’t have had any idea what to do. I didn’t know how else to reach you. But I needed to tell you-”

“It’s okay, Eds,” Bill murmurs, squeezing him tightly. “It’s oh-okay now. I’m here, and Stan’s gonna be ff-fuh-fine.”

Over Eddie’s head, he can see the other Losers watching him. Their gaze makes him feel impossibly small, and he can’t help the shame that spreads throughout his body.

“I’m ss-suh-suh-sorry I wasn’t there,” he says.

“It’s okay,” Mike says. He looks exhausted, clothes drenched in blood and movements sluggy, but he offers Bill a soft smile nonetheless. “You’re here now.”

Bill nods silently, whatever words he wanted to say now trapped in his throat.

“I like your turtle,” Bev says. She sounds just as tired as Mike, but her voice still carries a light hearted teasing tone.

“Oh.” Bill flushes. “I didn’t - I just huh-ha-happened to be holding him when I got the call.” It’s more than that. It’s irrational, but he can’t help but think the world is going to be a little better whenever he’s holding that turtle. And he suspects his friends know that, but if they do, they don’t say a word.

He moves to sit next to Richie, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. Eddie, sensing the explosive possibilities of this conversation, quietly slips away and cuddles into Ben’s side.

The silence is painful, but it’s clear Richie isn’t going to be the one to break it. Despite how much he likes to talk, he keeps his mouth glued shut and his eyes, which burn with fiery anger behind his glasses, continue staring at the opposite wall.

“I’ve b-been a real asshole,” Bill says.

“Yeah,” Richie seethes. “You have.”

“I’m sorry,” Bill whispers. “You didn’t deserve eh-everything I d-dih-did to you. I shouldn’t have thrown that buh-buh-book at you.”

“Yeah, well,” Richie squirms in his seat, “I shouldn’t have said all that shit about Georgie and Stan.” He glances Bill out of the corner of his eyes. “So I guess we’re even.” Richie turns to face him fully, pulling his legs up against his chest. “I’m sorry too. Things have been shitty lately.”

“Yeah,” Bill murmurs. “Ss-Sup-Super shitty. Hey, where are Stan’s pp-pah-parents?”

“They’re talking to the police,” Richie says, gesturing wildly at the empty doorway. “Down the hall.”

“Do you know wh-wha-what happened to him?”

A swift knock against the doorframe interrupts whatever Richie may have been about to say. A nurse with a sweet smile is standing in the doorway. “He’s awake now,” she says. “He may be a little groggy, so give him space. But you can see him.”

Stan’s parents are already in the room, dotting on him quietly. His mother, Andrea, is softly gripping his hand, while his father, Donald, sits in the stiff chair beside him, whispering things Bill can’t quite hear. But he supposes they’re not his to hear anyway.

Richie doesn’t seem to have the same concerns about personal space, and rushes to Andrea’s side as fast as he possibly can.

“Stan!” Richie crows. “You’re okay! Holy shit, you’re okay!”

Stan hums quietly, and the sound sends a jolt through Bill’s body. “I dunno ‘bout okay.”

“You had to get, like, a million blood transfusions,” Richie rambles. “Did you know you and Ben have the same blood type? He gave blood for you. Now you have Ben’s blood inside you. How does that make you feel?”

“Very grateful Ben’s my friend,” Stan replies sleepily.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Ben says. He’s fidgeting awkwardly, but there’s no doubt he means what he says. “I love you, man.”

“Love you too,” Stan says.

“We have to answer a few more questions for the police,” Andrea says, lifting Stan’s hand to her lips to gently kiss his knuckles. “Are you gonna be okay if your dad and I step out for a second?”

Stan must nod, because a moment later Andrea’s pressing a kiss to his forehead and Donald’s squeezing his other hand as they rise to their feet. The Losers descend upon Stan, talking a million miles a minute and not bothering to stop just because their sobbing makes anything they say unintelligible.

Bill hangs back, guilt eating as his stomach. He wasn’t there. He should have been there. Why wasn’t he there? He should have-

“Oh, Bill, I’m so glad you’re here now.” From this close, the tears in Stan’s parents’ eyes are clear as day. They make Bill’s heart constrict, and he almost can’t find the energy to respond.

“Mm-Muh-Me too,” he chokes out.

Andrea presses a kiss on his own forehead, muttering something half-heartedly about him growing up just so damned fast, and scurries out the door. Donald waits a moment longer.

“Your friends told me you’ve been looking for Stan,” he says.

“Yuh-Yuh-Yeah,” Bill says, not quite able to meet Donald’s eyes. “But I didn’t - I wasn’t th-th-thuh - I couldn’t ffff-fuh-fih-fih-”

Donald claps him on the shoulder, and it’s so dad-like that Bill nearly lets out the sob hiding in his chest.

“Thank you,” Donald says. “You’re a good kid, Bill. If you ever need anything, you come to me, alright?” Bill nods, speechless. “Good. Now go see Stan, I’m sure he missed you.”

He leaves without another word.

The walk to Stan’s bed seems to take a thousand years, and yet he’s at his side within the blink of an eye. Mike and Bev part for him, letting him fall back into his slot in their group, and it almost seems normal. They’re all together again, their own little family. But it’s not normal. Normal doesn’t involve a hospital bed, or the tears in his friends’ eyes, or the scars that litter Stan’s skin.

Bill let them down, but now he has to chance to fix it, and he isn’t going to fuck it up.

“Hey,” Bill says softly. “How ah-are you fff-feeling?”

But Stan isn’t looking at him. Instead he’s got his eye on the turtle still gripped in Bill’s hand, watching the slight sway of its tiny, stuffed body with hawk-like intensity.

“Stan?” Bill murmurs.

“Give me that,” Stan blurts, suddenly looking a million times more awake. He shoots up into a sitting position, ignoring the wince of pain on his own face and the cries of protest his friends let out.

“I - What?” Bill says, feeling rather stupid.

“Georgie!” Stan insists, as if that makes any more sense. “I need him! Give him to me!”

“I dd-duh-don’t - What-”

“The turtle!” Stan says, starting to squirm uncomfortably now. “The fucking turtle!”

“I - Oh - Yuh-Yeah, sure.”

Bill hands the turtle out to Stan, who snatches it out of his hands as fast as he possibly can. His body visibly relaxes once he’s got his hands on it, and immediately the rest of the Losers have been completely forgotten. All he can do is stare down at the turtle, as if its sad, droopy body was the most magical thing he’s ever seen.

Bill looks to his friends, hoping they might have some sort of answer, but they look just as confused as he feels.

“Hey, Stanley,” Mike murmurs, managing to recapture Stan’s attention. “What - Um-”

“What the fuck was that?” Richie asks, never one to worry about being polite.

“He was down in the basement with me,” Stan says softly, eyes back on the turtle. “Made me feel safe.”

“And you named him after jj-juh-juh-Georgie?”

“I thought it would be a good way to preserve his memory,” Stan says, like it’s just that simple.

Bill feels like he could cry. His parents had barely had a funeral. Just a small memorial at the local church, even though none of them really attended anymore. The pastor had lamented how Georgie was in a better place now, and how they should use this moment to find peace of mind.

But Bill never felt peaceful. He left feeling angry. Angry at the pastor for not understanding. Angry at his parents for not caring. Angry at himself for not trying hard enough.

He still doesn’t feel at peace with it, exactly. Sometimes he fears he never will. But right now, in this moment, as he watches Stan run his fingers over the turtle - Georgie’s - shell, he thinks maybe he could feel okay someday after all.

“I’m ss-suh-sorry I wasn’t there,” Bill says. “Wh-When they found you.”

Stan glances up at him curiously. “You weren’t?” It’s not angry, or malicious, but it still stabs Bill through the heart. He shakes his head. “Oh, well, I don’t remember much of it anyway.”

“Do you wanna know where he was?” Richie asks suddenly, teeth grit in frustration.

“Yes,” Bill says, at the same moment Stan pleads, “No!”

Richie falls silent immediately, despite how hard it obviously is for him. Bill can see his jaw moving inside his mouth, desperately trying to keep himself busy before he blurts out the wrong thing. Richie may not care about personal space, or being polite, but he cares about Stanley.

Still, Stan seems no less distressed.

“No,” He keeps saying. “I can’t - I don’t want to - I can’t think about that - that place. It was cold, and gross, and wet, and cold. I didn’t - I didn’t - I didn’t like it! I - I don’t - I can’t-”

“It’s okay,” Bev insits, voice soft as silk. She tucks one of Stan’s hands between her own, squeezing tightly. “It’s okay, we won’t talk about it. You’re okay.”

“Yeah,” Richie murmurs. “I was - I was just.” He sighs heavily. “We won’t talk about it if you don’t want to, Stan. We never have to bring it up ever again if you don’t want to.”

Stan turns to look at Bill, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Yeah,” Bill says. “W-W-We can just pretend nothing happened. If you want.”

Stan sniffs, eyes returning to the turtle. “I missed you guys,” he says. “I thought about you all the time.”

“We thought about you too,” Bill says. “We looked eh-ever-everywhere for you.”

Stan fiddles with the turtle, watching with quiet amusement as its head flops from side to side.

“I’m sure I’ll tell you someday,” he whispers. “But not - not now. I - I c-can’t-”

“That’s okay,” Beverly murmurs, noticing the wetness clinging to his eyelashes. “Take your time, alright?” Stan nods, letting Bev gently wipe beneath his eyes with the pad of her thumb.

Stan looks up at Bill. From this angle he looks almost childish, with his wide eyes and Georgie the Turtle in his arms.

“You aren’t really going to leave with him, are you?” he asks, sounding terrified of the answer.

Bill feels like the wind has been punched out of him. Stan looks desperate for a response, silently pleading for Bill to say something,  _ anything _ . But Bill couldn’t say anything if he wanted to. Everyone is staring at him, all equally as confused and undoubtedly angry.

“What - What’s he talking about?” Eddie asks.

Bill doesn’t look at him. He can’t look at him. Because he knows what he’ll see if he does. And he doesn’t think he’s ready to face the betrayal on his friend’s face quite yet.

“I - Um - I-” His voice falls flat. There’s nothing to say.

Stan seems to realize what this means, and lurches up to grab Bill’s wrist. “ _ You can’t go with him! _ ”

“Nuh-No, I-”

“ _ Bill- _ ”

“I’m-”

“Mister Uris.” The detective stands in the doorway, notebook in hand. “I’m going to have to ask you some questions about Mister Gray.”

Bill swallows thickly.

Stan shrinks away, as if trying to shield himself behind the Losers. “Can it wait?”

The detective looks apologetic. “Sorry, kid. We need to get your statement as soon as possible. We can call in one of your parents if you want.”

Stan hesitates. “No. No, I don’t - I don’t think I can-”

The detective nods, as if he understands exactly what Stan is trying to say. “I’m going to need everyone to exit the room.”

Ben squeezes Stan’s shoulder, careful of his injuries. “We’ll be right outside, okay?”

“You’ll be okay,” Bev reassures him.

Richie kisses Stan’s temple, which is very un-Richie like. But nothing seems quite right today, so what’s one more strange thing?

Bill feels frozen. The rest of the Losers are stumbling out of the hospital room, murmuring their goodbyes and reassurances on their way. But Bill can’t quite get his legs to move, eyes still glued to the marks decorating Stan’s face.

“Bill,” Mike’s voice whispers gently in his ear. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Bill lets Mike drag him away - drag him out of Stan’s grasp. Mike’s hand is warm around his wrist, fingers pressed firmly against his pulsepoint. It’s a reassurance that someone is there, that someone cares for him, and it pushes the air back into Bill’s lungs. He thinks he’s been waiting for that push for a long time.

The door has barely closed behind them when Richie is shoving Mike out of the way and forcing himself into Bill’s personal space. “What the fuck, Bill? You’re fucking leaving with that creep?”

Bill’s first instinct is to fight, to defend himself. But the funny thing is, Richie’s right.

“I need to go,” Bill says.

“What the fuck, _no_!” Richie cries out. “You are not going anywhere until you explain yourself. What the fuck is happening?”  
“ _Richie_!” Bill snaps. “I have to go.” Richie quiets down, but still doesn’t back down, eyes fiery behind his coke-bottle glasses. “I’ll b-b-be back.”

“And you’ll explain?” Richie asks.

Bill nods. “S-Suh-Swuh-Swear.”

Richie hesitates, as if unsure whether or not to trust him. Then he steps aside.

The other Losers don’t say anything as Bill marches down the hall, shoulders squared and head held high.

-

The bike ride home gives him enough time to think over his inkling of a plan, and enough time to decide whether or not he could actually go through with it. By the time he reaches his front door, he thinks he could.

His parents aren’t home, which makes it all that much easier to open the safe in his parent’s walk-in closet.

Bill has only seen the gun a handful of times, but feeling it in his hand is something different entirely. It’s heavier than he thought it would be, and it feels wrong in his hand. But that doesn’t stop him from loading it with bullets, shoving it into the waistband of his jeans, and clamoring back onto his bike.

The door to Robert’s apartment is closed. Locked too, which is unusual for nights when he knows Bill is coming over. But it doesn’t matter. Bill simply takes the key out from under the mattress and unlocks the door.

Inside, Robert is watching TV. Bill’s barely entered the threshold before he’s gotten Robert’s attention.

“You were supposed to be here hours ago,” Robert says, a hint of frustration in his voice. Bill grits his teeth. It’s this that causes Robert to catch wind that something has changed. “Is everything okay?”

“They found Stan,” Bill says, speaking slowly enough that his tongue has a chance to mold every syllable before he even has the chance to stutter.

“Oh,” Robert says. He doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds more like he’s trying to figure out how he should respond. “Well, that’s-”  
“That means I’m ss-stuh-staying here,” Bill spits out, as if he can’t keep it in a minute longer.

“I was going to say that’s good,” Robert says with a frown. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Billy, surely you can’t be serious. Just because they found Stanley, that doesn’t make this town any better. This place is still a shithole that chews people up and spits them out. If you don’t get out now you never will. This town doesn’t care about you. This town doesn’t care about anyone. This town killed Georgie.”

“ _ You _ kk-kuh-killed Georgie!” Bill screams, brandishing an accusing finger in Robert’s face. “Georgie cared about me! Georgie loved me! And you fucking killed him!”

Robert, the bastard, has the audacity to look scandalized. “What in the hell gave you that idea?”

“Are you denying it?”

“Wh - Yes!”

“I know you did it!” Bill shouts. “I  _ know _ you did! I can’t ff-fuh-fucking believe I  _ ever _ trusted you!”

Robert scoffs. “Billy, you’re being ridiculous. C’mon, we have to leave tonight. We can stop by your house to pick up your stuff.”

“Why?” Bill snaps. “Why do we have to l-luh-leave tonight? Because you can’t huh-hide anymore? B-B-Because the police are after you now? Stan’s talking to them rrr-right now, they’re gonna be here within the hour.”

“Billy-”

“Don’t call mm-me that! I’m not leaving with you! I’m staying here!”

With a snarl, Robert lunges forward. He manages to catch Bill by the throat, fingers flexing against his windpipe, and while Bill’s eyes pop in surprise, Robert turns them around and slams Bill down against the couch.

“Like hell you are,” he snarls. “Your little friend comes back and suddenly you’re all high and mighty? Suddenly you’re better than me?” He tightens his fingers, grinning as Bill’s eyes widen and his hands start to claw at Robert’s fingertips. He waits until Bill’s chest starts to heave before relaxing his hold again, keeping his fingers loosely around Bill’s throat so he can feel every movement as Bill coughs and splutters in his grasp. “You know why I had to take Stanley away, don’t you? Because he thought you were his. His to put his hands on, his to kiss, his to fuck-”

Bill screws up his face and spits up onto Robert’s face. “I’m not yours either.”

Robert glowers, not even bothering to wipe his face. “We’ll see about that.”

Then his hand is moving away from his throat, slipping down, down, down, until it’s at the button of his jeans. And Bill wants to push him off, but Robert’s free hand has his wrists pinned above his head, so all Bill can do is thrash uselessly.

“What’s wrong, Billy?” Robert teases. He momentarily forgets about Bill’s jeans in favor of slipping his hand under his shirt to rub at the soft flesh of his stomach. “This is hardly the first time you’ve done this. Why get cold feet now?”

“Fuck you,” Bill sneers. He twists his wrists in Robert’s grasp, but to no avail. “Fuck you, fuck you,  _ fuck you _ .”

“Awe,” Robert says. “Actually I’m gonna fuck you.” Then his hand is back on the waistband of Bill’s jeans and he’s tugging  _ hard _ as he tries to get them down past his hips.

But he’s interrupted by an earth-shattering  _ thud _ as something heavy hits the hardwood floors.

For a moment Robert just stops, completely frozen. He’s so still that Bill almost wonders if time has stopped altogether. But then he leans down, hand falling away from Bill’s jeans, only to return with the gun in hand.

“Billy,” Robert says slowly. “What the fuck is this?”

Bill squirms in Robert’s hold, heart thundering in his ears. He’s going to die. He’s so sure he’s going to die. But he’ll be damned if he lets Robert see that. “It’s a gg-guh-gun, genius.”

“It’s a guh-guh-guh-gun,” Robert mocks, making Bill recoil. Robert’s never made fun of his stutter before. But he supposes he doesn’t  _ really _ know the first thing about Robert. “Yeah, I can fucking see that.” The cold metal of the barrel presses firmly against Bill’s temple. “What the fuck is it doing at my house?”

Bill bares his teeth. “Take a wild ff-fuh-fuck-fucking guess.”

Robert gapes at him, and Bill hates that he can’t tell if his shock is genuine or not. “After all the kindness I showed you?” The safety clicks off. “Now, Billy, that’s just rude.”

“ _ Kindness _ ,” Bill drawls, voice high and mocking. “You can’t call ah-anything you did me kindness.”

“Sure I can! I just did!”

“ _ Asshole! _ ” Bill screams. “ _ I hate you! I fucking hate you! _ ”

“Yeah, well, you better find a way to get past that,” Robert says. “We’re gonna be roommates, after all.”

“In your fucking dd-dreams,” Bill hisses. “I already told you, I’m not going wuh-with you. You’re going to have to kill me.”

Robert fakes an over exaggerated pout. “But I was starting to like you so much.”

The hand around Bill’s wrists slips away, and Bill’s own hands twitch with the urge to hit Robert. But he’s got a gun against his head.

Robert does not seem to notice the twitch in Bill’s hand, instead too focused on gripping Bill’s face. He squeezes his cheeks, forcing his lips to pucker. Robert wastes no time in diving down, kissing and licking his way into Bill’s mouth.

Bill instinctively pulls away, but there’s nowhere for him to go. He’s only pushed further into the couch, Robert’s hold tightening against his cheeks.

Bill’s brain is scattered. Robert is dangerous. Robert is going to hurt him. Robert is bigger and stronger than him, there’s no way he would stand a chance in a fight. But he has to do  _ something _ .

His hand moves as slow as it possibly can, to avoid catching Robert’s attention. Although Robert seems pretty distracted, attention focused on shoving his tongue as far back in Bill’s throat as he possibly can.

His other hand has noticeably relaxed against the gun. It gives Bill enough of a chance to wrap his fingers around the barrel and rip it free of Robert’s hand.

Robert barely has a chance to pull away before Bill is smashing the gun against his temple. Robert’s head rockets backwards, and his hands come up to scramble against his forehead, allowing Bill to fumble his way off the couch. He lands with a  _ crash _ on the floor, but is back on his feet in record time.

Robert’s forehead is bleeding, sticky red blood dripping from between his fingers, but Bill pays it no mind. Why should he?

“You’re disgusting,” Bill snarls.

Robert laughs. Fucking  _ laughs _ . “ _ I’m _ disgusting?” Blood drips into his smile. “ _ You _ let your brother go out alone that day.  _ You _ led Stanley to his doom.”

“Shut up!” Bill yells. “I did not! I dd-duh-dih-dih-didn’t-”

“ _ You _ killed Georgie!”

“ _ Shut up! _ ” Bill’s points the gun at Robert’s chest. His finger presses against the trigger, but he doesn’t pull it. Not yet. “ _ You _ killed Georgie! You killed huh-him and then convinced me that you could fucking relate-”

“Oh but I can relate.” Robert leans forward, blood-stained teeth still on display. “I did have a brother. And I also killed him.”

“ _ I didn’t fucking kill my brother! _ ”

“Well he would still be around if it weren’t for you,” Robert says simply.

Bill takes a deep breath in through his nose. “I hate you.”  
Robert cocks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Bill nods. “You murdered my brother. You kidnapped my boyfriend. You made me suck your dick.” He cocks the gun. “Now I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

Robert scoffs. “You don’t have the fucking guts.”

Bill closes one eye, aiming the gun. “Try me.”

_ Bang! _

Blood squirts from his chest, spraying Bill across the face. Robert’s body skyrockets backwards. He lands in a crumpled heap against the back of the couch, moaning softly. He struggles to sit up, to move at all, but still he remains crumpled. Bill shoots him once more in the foot, just for extra protection.

“If my aim was gg-guh-good, I’ve hit your lung,” Bill says casually. “You’ll drown in your oh-own blood. If my aim was bad, you’ll bb-bluh-bleed out. Either way, I’ll sit here and watch the whole thing.”

-

Bill walks his bike back home. His arms still hurt and he doesn’t have the energy to ride. He knows he has to get back to Stan as fast as possible, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t need this time to clear his head.

Not that it matters. By the time he returns to the hospital, his head is still reeling

“Bill!”

Bill blinks. Once. Twice.

Ben is standing in front of him, eyes shiny with concern. “Are you okay?”

Bill nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I-I’m fine.”

“Where did you go?”

“I just - um - I just had to tt-tuh-take care of something,” Bill says. “Don’t worry ab-about it.”

“What’s on your shirt?”

“Nn-Nothing.”

“It looks like blood.”

“Ben. Don’t worry about it.” Bill isn’t sure what it is - if it’s the sudden steadiness of his voice or the blood that he didn’t work hard enough to scrub out of his face - but Ben backs down. He returns to his spot between Beverly and Eddie, allowing Bill the opportunity to scurry to Stan’s side.

“Hey,” Bill murmurs. “How ah-are you feeling?”

“Less drowsy,” Stan says.

Bill busts out a laugh, despite the fact that nothing he said was really that funny. “That’s good.”

“Sorry I took Georgie,” Stan says. “You can have him back if you want.” Despite these claims, he still clings to the turtle like a toddler clinging to a favorite blanket.

“That’s okay,” Bill says. “I th-think you need him more than I do.”

Stan stares up at him with wide eyes, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bill says. “Hey, can I ss-sit here?”

Stan nods, shuffling over so Bill has enough room to crawl into bed with him.

“I was really worried when you didn’t come back,” Stan murmurs. “I thought maybe you left. With him, I mean.”

Bill shakes his head. “I won’t leave. Prom-Promise.”

Stan studies his face, as if checking for any trace of a lie. After a few seconds he seems satisfied, and cuddles closer to Bill. “Where were you?”

“I jj-juh-just had to take care of something,” Bill says. “I didn’t mm-mean to be gone so long.”

“Is everything okay?” Stan asks.

Bill offers him a smile, a real one this time. “Yeah, everything’s okay now.”

Stan hums. “You just look tired.”

Bill chuckles. “I am a luh-little tired.”

“Why don’t you go to sleep?” Stan says.

“But-”

“I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

Bill isn’t so sure, but he doesn’t have much room to argue. He is fucking exhausted. Before he can talk himself out of it, he tucks his head against Stan’s chest and allows his eyes to flutter shut.

-

Bill’s awoken by a hand shaking his shoulder. The contact nearly makes him leap out of his skin, but when he looks up, it’s only Beverly.

“We have to go,” she says. Bill glances at Stan, which must be enough information for Beverly because a moment later she continues, “He’ll be okay, his parents are staying here with him. We can come back tomorrow.”

Bill nods slowly.

He presses a soft kiss against Stan’s forehead, smiling softly as he shuffles in his sleep, before trailing after Beverly.

“I told the rest of the Losers to go on ahead,” Bev says, her voice quiet.

“Oh?” Bill says, as if that doesn’t fill him with an unreasonable amount of dread.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Bev says. “But I didn’t want the group to overwhelm you.”

“Oh.”

Bev shoots him a sideways glance. “Did you forget your entire vocabulary when you were sleeping?”

Bill fights back a blush, silently grateful they’ve made their way outside by now so Bev can’t see the red in his cheeks. “Nuh-No, sorry. What did you want to tt-talk about?”

“You were supposed to tell Richie where you were going,” Bev says. “He’s really upset.”

“I’ll ah-apol-apologise in the morning.”

“And tell him the truth?”

Bill shrugs. “I’ll at least think of a good lie.”

Bev laughs, her voice seeming to continue endlessly as it echoes through the quiet Derry streets. “Yeah, alright.” She pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket. “Want one?”

“I’ll just take a huh-hit off yours,” Bill says with a teasing smile.

Bev smirks. “Fair enough.” She lights one of the cigarettes, shoving the box back into her pocket before bringing the cigarette to her lips. “So,” she takes a long drag, “Are you gonna tell  _ me _ where you were?”

She passes the cigarette to Bill, who brings it tentatively to his own lips. “Probably not.”

“Okay.” She waits until after her second hit to continue, “Did it have something to do with Robert?”

Bill shrugs.

“I really am sorry,” she says softly, glancing up at Bill sympathetically as she passes him the cigarette again. “I know you wanted him to be someone else.”

“Yeah, well, he ww-wuh-wasn’t that person,” Bill says. “Never was. No u-use complaining now.”

“Was?” Beverly asks. Bill clamps down harshly on the end of the cigarette. “Bill, what did you do?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bill says. “It’s over now.”

Bev is silent for a moment. Bill is just starting to think she’s dropped it when she says, “You should have at least changed your shirt. You’re lucky none of the nurses saw.”

“There wasn’t time. I had to gg-guh-get back to Stan.”

“I think he appreciated that,” Bev murmurs.

The back of their hands brush together. Bill doesn’t think anything of it, but Bev reaches out and interlocks their fingers.

“Whatever you did,” she says. “I’m sure he had it coming.”

“Yeah,” Bill mutters. “He did.” He squeezes her hand tightly. “I love you, Bevvy. I don’t know if I tell you that en-enough. But I do.”

Bev grins over at him. “I love you too.”

“You ww-wuh-were right,” Bill says suddenly. “Th-That nuh-night at Stan’s. I wasn’t rr-really sick. Rr-Ruh-Ruh-Roh-Robert hh-huh-hah-had-”

“I know,” Bev says. “I - We - We found his camera. With all the pictures of you.”

“ _ Fuck _ . I know I sh-sh-shouldn’t have ll-luh-let him. But I duh-duh-didn’t know - I couldn’t jjj-just-”

Bev squeezes his hand again, tighter this time. “It’s not your fault.” When Bill doesn’t reply she continues, “You didn’t know any better. You couldn’t have - Bill?”

Bill has stopped suddenly, their intertwined hands making her jerk backwards. They’re in the middle of a crosswalk, right in the middle of a road, and the idea that a car could come barreling down the street at any minute makes Bev’s heart race. But there’s hardly anyone out at this time, so she pushes that concern to the back of her mind. She has bigger fish to fry.

“Bill?” she murmurs, shuffling closer to him. “What is it?”

Bill sniffles quietly. “I’m rrrr-ruh-really sorry, Bevvy. Th-That I lied to you.”

“It’s okay,” Bev insists. “You didn’t know-”

“I think I ah-al-always kind of knew,” Bill mumbles. “Ss-Somewhere in the bb-buh-back of my mind. I knew I sh-sh-shouldn’t let him ffff-fuh-fuh-fuck me. I - I jj-just - I didn’t-”

Bev throws her arms around his shoulders, holding him at tight as she possibly can. The feeling makes him crumple, folding into her like an old piece of paper in the wind.

“It’s okay,” Bev murmurs, rubbing his shaking shoulders with the palm of her hand. “It’s okay. It’s alright. It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

“Bb-Buh-But what i-if it wasn’t,” Bill forces out, the words only making his sobs come harder. “What if - Wh-What if you ww-wuh-were too ll-luh-late? I dd-don’t know what I ww-wuh-wuh-would’ve done.”

“But we weren’t,” Bev says firmly. “We weren’t too late. Stan’s okay. You’re okay.” She squeezes him a little tighter. “You know I would never let anything happen to you. I would’ve gone after you, if you had gone with him.”

“Not me!” Bill cries out, pulling away to fix her with a gaping look. “Stan! Wh-What if - What if he dd-dih-didn’t mm-make it.”

“He  _ did _ make it,” Bev says, hands moving to cup Bill’s cheeks gently. “There’s no use torturing yourself with alternatives.” She gently wipes the tears under Bill’s eyes with the pads of her thumbs. “And Stan wasn’t the only one hurt. You’re worth something too, Bill. We all would have gone looking for you.”

Bill shakes his head. “You sh-shouldn’t rrr-risk something like that ff-fuh-for me.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Bev scoffs. “There’s no way in hell I would let that creep take you away from me.”

Bill chews slowly on his lower lip. “Promise?”

Bev draws one of her hands away from Bill’s face, holding out her pinky. “Pinky promise.”

It makes Bill laugh. It’s just a strangled, watery chuckle, but it’s better than nothing. So Bev counts it as a win.

Bill interlocks their pinkies. “Thank you.”

-

On the day Stan is released from the hospital, Bill goes to visit him. It isn’t very different from the previous days, the Losers have been by Stan’s side nearly every hour of every day, but the change of scenery is nice. And they’re alone this time, which makes Bill’s palms sweaty and heart race.

The other Losers have already visited Stan, bringing little welcome home gifts upon their arrival. Bill has his tucked under his arm. It’s not as pretty as Mike’s, who got him a little potted plant for his windowsill, or as useful as Richie’s, who got him a container of pepper spray  _ and _ a small pocket knife, but Bill thinks it’s just as good. He  _ hopes _ it’s just as good.

Andrea greets him at the door, her smile bright and warm.

“Hello, Bill,” she says. “Stanley’s up in his room.”

“Th-Thank you,” Bill says, offering a smile that he hopes mimics the kindness of her own.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Andrea asks as she softly shuts the door behind him.

“Oh, I dd-duh-don’t know,” Bill says. “I don’t ww-wuh-want to bb-bother you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, we have more than enough. Just think about it and let me know, okay?”

Bill has to admit it sounds nice. Much nicer than the thought of going home to sit in silence and suffer with his own thoughts, despite his parents sitting directly next to him. Stan’s parents are strict, but they’re also warm. Even from the outside, Bill can’t help but crave their kindness.

“Okay,” He says. “I’ll ll-let you know.”

Andrea nods, satisfied. “Go on, then.”

Bill all but runs to Stan’s room. He throws the door open, startling Stan, who had been reading on his bed, with Georgie the Turtle placed carefully on his lap.

“Sor-Sorry,” Bill says, cheeks flushed red.

“That’s alright,” Stan says, though his eyes are still wide and alarmed.

Bill closes the door behind him, much softer this time, and crosses the room to perch cautiously by Stan’s side. “Wh-What are you rr-reading?”

Stan flips over the book to reveal  _ The Hobbit _ in curvy letters across the front. “Ben got it for me,” he says. “Offered to switch it for something more recent but,” Stan shrugs.

“Oh, you u-used to read this wh-when we were kids,” Bill says.

“Mhm. I lost my copy a few years ago. So this is-”

“Can I kiss you?”

Stan blinks, his mouth curving into a small O shape.

“Um - Sorry,” Bill says with a little shake of his head. “Ww-Wuh-We - We don’t - I’m sss-sorry. I sh-sh-shuh-shouldn’t have - Let’s just - For-Forget it, yeah? Um - I - Um - huh-have ss-something for you-”

“Bill,” Stan says, reaching out to grasp the front of Bill’s flannel. “Shut up.” He studies Bill’s face closely. “You still like me?”

Bill nods, despite the fact that he’s pretty sure his heart has completely stopped. “I tt-tuh-told you, I th-think I’m in love ww-with you.”

Stan’s cheeks flush pink. “That was so long ago. I guess I just thought - I dunno.”

“I’ve waited ss-since we were kids,” Bill says. “I could wuh-wait a few more months. Although I wish I dd-duh-didn’t have to.”

“Yeah,” Stan murmurs. “Me either.”

From this close, Bill can see every detail of Stan’s face. All the little blemishes and imperfections. Bill thinks they’re beautiful.

Most of the bruising has gone away by now, but there are still a few nasty scars lingering around. Those Bill hates, but not because of Stan. Never because of Stan. He hates that he, Bill Denbrough, is the reason they’re there. He hates that he did this to Stan. That he forced him into this life.

“We don’t huh-have to do anything you don't ww-want to,” Bill says quietly. “But I do love you.”

“Yeah,” Stan murmurs. “I love you too.”

And Bill thinks that’s enough for now.

One of Stan’s curls has fallen into his eyes. Bill doesn’t think much of it when he reaches up and tugs at the curl, watching it bounce back into place. Bill thinks Stan’s curls are beautiful, and he’s about to tell Stan as much, only when he looks back, Stan looks  _ terrified _ .

“What - What’s wrong?” Bill asks, alarmed. Stan opens and closes his mouth a few times, as if he can’t quite find the words. Or he’s found the words, but just can’t force them out. “Stan?”

“Noth-Nothing,” Stan blurts out. “It’s - um - nothing. I’m - I’m sorry.”

“It’s nn-not nothing!” Bill insists. “What’s wrong?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Stan murmurs. Tears are starting to gather in his eyes.

Bill raises his hand to brush Stan’s curls out of his eyes, something about how he’ll always be here for him poised on the end of his tongue, but freezes when Stan flinches away.

“Do yy-yuh-you not want me to?” Bill asks. Stan shakes his head, refusing to meet Bill’s eyes. “Okay.” Bill draws his hand back, curling it against his chest.

For a moment it’s quiet, a thick silence blanketing over their forms, then, “Robert used to do that.” The words are quiet, barely audible, but they still feel earth-shattering to Bill.

Despite this, all he can find to say is, “Oh.”

Stan curls in on himself, forehead pressed firmly against his knees. “I just want things to go back to normal.”

Bill wants to reach out and touch him. Wants to wrap his arms around him and pull him close to his chest. But he doesn’t know what else will set him off, so keeps his hands to himself.

“I know,” Bill mutters. “They will, eh-eventually.”

“No they won’t,” Stan says immediately. “Things will be  _ okay _ eventually. We’ll grow, we’ll heal, shit like that. But things will never be  _ normal _ again.” He lifts his head to fix Bill with a piercing stare. “We’ll heal, but we won’t forget.”

“Yeah,” Bill whispers. “But we’ll have each other.”

That makes Stan crack a smile. Even if it’s only a small one, Bill still feels like he’s climbed the world’s tallest mountain.

“Yeah,” Stan murmurs. He reaches out and intertwines their fingers, his smile only growing at how easily they slip together. “Yeah, we will.”

Bill squeezes Stan’s hand three times.  _ I love you _ . Stan returns the gesture with three squeezes of his own.  _ I love you too _ .

“Do you think he’s still out there?” Stan says. “Robert. The police haven’t found him yet, and I just keep thinking-”

“He’s not out there,” Bill blurts out, before Stan can start to spiral.

“But - But - What if he - What if - What if he comes back for me?” His voice is small, and his eyes have taken on a terrified, almost childlike appearance.

Bill squeezes Stan’s hand harder. “He ww-won’t.”

Stan squirms in his seat. “You can’t possibly know that.”

Bill thinks about Robert, all cut up into a million different pieces, buried in a couple dozen shallow graves behind his creepy apartment building. “Trust me.”

“The police still haven’t found him,” Stan repeats weakly, like he’s struggling to put together the last piece of a puzzle.

“No one’s going to fff-find him,” Bill says.

For a moment Stan doesn’t say anything. He just stares up at Bill with those wide, terrified, eyes and Bill starts to worry he’s going to have to tell Stan exactly what he did. But then Stan nods slowly and murmurs out, “Okay.”

Bill leans closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. The kiss seems to relax Stan, seems to make him forget about the fearful way his heart beats, so Bill presses another one to his forehead. Then his nose. Then between his eyes. Then his cheek, and then his other cheek.

Soon his pressing kisses wherever he can reach, tackling Stan onto the bed as Stan shrieks with laughter. Bill knows he should be careful, knows Stan’s parents are just downstairs, but Stan’s grinning brighter than Bill’s seen in a long time, and who would Bill be to take that happiness away?

He continues to place kisses wherever he can reach, until Stan puts his hands on either of Bill’s cheeks, stilling him mere inches away from his face.

“You’re a good guy, Bill,” Stan says. “You know that, right?”

Bill can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Th-That’s nice of you to say.”

“And that you did the best you could.”

That makes Bill pause. “I - Um - Th-Th-Thank you.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t find Georgie,” Stan says suddenly. “The real Georgie.”

The atmosphere in the room has taken a complete 180. The thought of Georgie makes Bill’s chest burn, as if there’s a fire inside, burning his insides and licking at his heart. Still, “It’s nn-not your ff-fau-fault,” he tells Stan.

“It’s not yours either,” Stan says. “You know that right?” Bill nods, even though it’s not necessarily true. Stan must see through his lie because he offers Bill just about the saddest damn smile he’s ever seen and says, “He would be proud of you, if he were here now.”

Bill chuckles, though the sound is void of joy. “I dd-duh-dunno ah-abou-about that.”

“It’s true,” Stan says. “You tried so hard to find him. And me. And you didn’t let Robert break you.”

Bill still doesn’t know how true that is, but Stan’s voice is so firm and sure of itself, that he doesn’t dare argue.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Stan wraps his arms around Bill’s shoulders, making the skin he touches turn hot and fiery.

“We - We can take it slow, right?” he asks softly.

Bill nods. “Y-Yeah, of course. I - Um - That’s bb-better for me too, any-wuh-ways.”

His words make Stan’s eyes turn sad, but he still forces a smile onto his lips. “If nothing else, at least we have our extremely specific trauma to bond over.”

Bill barks out a laugh, leaning down to bury his face in Stan’s neck. “Yeah, tt-truh-try finding another couple that connected.” The words have barely left his mouth before he’s pushing himself away from Stan again, using his elbows to support himself as he hovers above him. “Is - Is that oh-okay?”

“What, that we have shared trauma? I mean, there’s not much to do about it now.”

“No! Us bb-being a couple.”

“Yeah,” Stan grins. “I like the sound of that.”

“Cool,” Bill says, a matching grin of his own spreading across his face. It’s only then that he notices how he’s dropped down so, once again, the tips of their noses brush together. “So - Um - Wh-When you said tt-take it sluh-sluh-slow-”

Stan’s leaning up to capture his lips in a kiss before Bill can finish his thought. It’s different than their first kiss, more chaste, but just as good. Bill has thought about this nearly every day for the past two months, he can hardly believe it’s real.

Stan’s lips are still just as soft as he remembers. They move against his enthusiastically, and his hands gently grip his shoulders, as if he needs something to steady himself. The thought only makes Bill kiss him harder, pushing him into the pillow beneath him.

Bill could stay here all day. Kissing Stanley Uris is not unlike the feeling you get on those fall days, when it’s still warm out but the wind is just starting to set in, and the leaves are starting to turn red and orange and all sorts of bright colors. The feeling you get when you wake up one day and realize the world is beautiful after all.

“Are you staying for dinner?” is the first thing Stan asks when Bill pulls away.

“Yeah,” Bill says through a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll st-stay as long as you want.”

Stan grins up at him. “Good.”

“Oh! I have sss-something for you!” Bill exclaims. He rolls off of Stan, scrambling for his notebook at the other end of the bed. “I wr-wrote you something.”

Stan’s eyes light up. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Bill collapses next to Stan, failing to hide his grin when Stan immediately cuddles into his side. “You can rr-read it now, or I can ll-luh-leave it here for you to read ll-later.”

“Will you read it to me?” Stan asks.

Bill hesitantly sends him a sideways glance. “Are you ss-sure?”

It’s easy for him to get tripped up when he reads, and he knows it can be frustrating to hear him stutter out every syllable for an entire story. His classmates would get fed up with him after only a single paragraph from their textbook. Nonetheless, Stan nods.

“Yeah,” he says.

So Bill reads to him.

And as he reads, he knows Stan is right. Things won’t ever be normal again. They can’t go back to the way things were before.

But he also knows things are going to be okay someday. It might not be today, it might not be tomorrow, it might not be anytime soon. But someday.

He thinks he can wait for someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it!
> 
> This chapter is crazy long, just over 14k. I knew it was going to be long, but I didn't expect it to be this long.
> 
> I also have an idea for an alternate ending. It probably won't be the top of my priorities, but if you guys are interested I would still be happy to write it! Please tell me whether or not you would want to see that in the comments.
> 
> I hope you guys liked this ending! Please leave comments, I love to hear your thoughts! Thank you for reading!!


	4. The Disappearance of Bill Denbrough - Alternate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie feels numb as he returns the phone to its hook. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Bill was supposed to be here. Just like how the clubhouse felt empty without Stan, the waiting room feels empty without Bill. There isn’t supposed to be six of them, and no matter what happens, they’re always going to feel lost without their seventh member.

“We should call Bill.”

Eddie’s voice rings clear throughout the waiting room, shattering the silence they had so willingly settled into. For a single, terrifying moment he thinks they’re going to say no. _“No, he can’t come.” “No, we don’t want him here.”_ But that’s ridiculous. Even if they’re not on the best of terms with Bill, they’re still friends. Even Richie, who's been at Bill’s throat the past few months, looks like he’s about to break under the weight of his friend’s name.

“I’ll do it,” Mike says. Except Mike’s clothes are still smeared with blood. His eyes look glassy and far away, like he can’t quite process what happened. Eddie can’t blame him.

“No.” Eddie’s on his feet before he can blink. “I’ll do it. I’ve known Bill since we were kids. The news should come from me.”

Mike nods distantly, sinking further into his seat.

As Eddie walks down the hallway, a sense of deja vu washes over him. He’s been here before. He’s done this before. He’s delivered this new before.

The thought makes his hands shake, and by the time he reaches the phone, his throat is so tight he can barely breath. He doesn’t bother reaching for his inhaler. It won’t be any help.

The phone rings. And rings. And rings.

_It isn’t supposed to ring this long_ , Eddie thinks, _it didn’t ring this long last time._

He keeps expecting to hear Bill’s voice.

_Huh-Hello?_ A voice in the back of his mind says. A voice that sounds all too similar to Bill’s, making his stomach twist and turn until it’s all tied up in knots.

Bill never picks up.

Eddie feels numb as he returns the phone to its hook. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Bill was supposed to be here. Just like how the clubhouse felt empty without Stan, the waiting room feels empty without Bill. There isn’t supposed to be six of them, and no matter what happens, they’re always going to feel lost without their seventh member.

-

Across town, Bill is loading boxes into the back of Robert’s car. There’s only a few, he’s had to leave most of his belongings behind, but Robert has promised to buy him more once they arrive at their destination. Where this destination is, Bill doesn’t know. And no matter how much he pesters Robert, he can’t seem to get a clear answer. Bill is starting to wonder if Robert knows.

The slam of the trunk snaps Bill out of his thoughts. He clutches the strap of his backpack tighter, glancing up at Robert with worry-bitten lips and wide eyes.

“Ready?” Robert grins. If he’s noticed Bill’s nerves, he has the good sense to ignore them.

Bill nods.

“This move is going to be really good for you, Billy,” Robert says, hand too low on Bill’s back as he directs him towards the passenger seat. “I can feel it. You’re going to be much happier.”

“Yeah,” Bill says. “Yeah I th-thi-think so tuh-too.”

At the first stop, an hour out of Maine, Bill tries to call Eddie. He needs to say goodbye to _someone_. It seems only fitting that it be Eddie, his oldest friend. He knows he'll be angry, and he knows there might be tears, but the Losers deserve to know where he’s gone.

But every time he gets close to the phone, Robert manages to scurry him away. Before he knows it, they’re back in the car and Bill never even touched the phone.

“I huh-huh-have to say bye to th-them,” he says.

“You can at the next stop, kid,” Robert says. He grins over at Bill. “Promise.”

Bill hugs the turtle - the little plush one Robert found in the woods - closer to his chest. He can’t bear to give it a name. He knows it had one at one point, but for the life of him he can’t recall it. It seems wrong to change it, like he’s killing a small part of Georgie all over again.

Despite Robert’s claims, Bill doesn’t get to call anyone at the next stop. Or the next. Or the next.

It isn’t until nearly 1 AM, when they check into a jankey motel somewhere in Massachusetts, that Bill even sees a phone. Bill goes to reach for it, but Robert grabs him by the shoulder, pushing him towards the bed.

“It’s late, Billy,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Can’t you call your little friends in the morning? They can go one night without hearing from you.”

“I dd-duh-don’t want them to www-wuh-wuh-worry,” Bill says. He’s still eyeing the phone, like a starving man would eye an old meal, but something stops him from reaching for it.

“It’s late,” Robert repeats firmly. “Besides, they probably haven’t even noticed.”

The thought makes Bill’s stomach drop. But, in all honesty, it’s probably true. Bill hasn’t spoken a word to them once today. They probably think he’s moping around his bedroom, writing half-finished stories and staring wistfully at old photos of Stan.

They’re not too far off. Bill has entertained himself for most of the drive by scribbling away in an old notebook, and various photos of the Losers Club weigh down the pockets of his backpack. Not that he dares to take them out. He won’t touch them until they arrive at their new apartment, he’s decided. Any other option leaves them too vulnerable to the possibility of getting lost.

Bill crawls into bed, collapsing under the covers without so much as bothering to take his jeans off. “Wh-Who knew that druh-druh-driving could be ss-such hard work?”

Robert chuckles. “It’s quite the adventure, huh?”

His hands fiddle with the button of Bill’s jeans, popping them open in order to slide them off and toss them carelessly to the floor. Bill’s much too tired to care. He just lifts his hips and hums sleepily as his skin is freed from the restrictive material.

It isn’t until one hand comes to rest on the back of Bill’s thigh, squeezing slightly, that Bill jolts back into reality.

“I thought you ss-suh-said it was tt-too late,” Bill mumbles

“I didn’t want you to wake your friend up,” Robert says. His hand sneaks up higher, palming over Bill’s ass before tugging a little at the elastic on his boxers. “Don’t you want to relieve some of the stress from the drive?”

“I ww-wuh-want to sl-sluh-sleep,” Bill says.

He squeezes his eyes shut, as if the very action will make sleep come. As if sleep will ward off Robert’s actions.

“You will,” Robert says. “But I’m doing so much for you, driving you across the country just so you’ll be happier. You want to repay me, don’t you?”

He already has Bill’s boxers halfway down his legs, so Bill goes pliant and tries not to think too hard about what’s to come.

-

The next morning, Bill does not use the phone. He wants to, but when he goes to grab it while Robert’s out buying breakfast, he finds the wire’s been cut clean off just before the wall. He could have sworn it wasn’t like that last night, but he figures it must have just been a trick of his sleep-deprived brain.

“Why can’t ww-wuh-we just stay here?” Bill asks as he watches Robert pack their stuff back into a small, ratty suitcase. “It’s nice huh-here.”

Robert shakes his head. “It’s too close, kid.”

“Too close to wh-what?” Bill says. “We’re two s-s-st-states away!”

“It won’t be too much longer now, alright?” Robert promises. “Just get in the car. Please?”

Bill gets in the car.

This whole thing is starting to feel Wrong. Wrong with a capital W. And it shouldn’t feel Wrong, because Bill trusts Robert. Because Robert has done so much for him, he wouldn’t really put him in harm’s way. But, nonetheless, there’s a deep, dark pit at the bottom of Bill’s stomach and it only gets deeper the farther away from home they get.

No, not home. That’s not home anymore. They’re going towards home. Their new home. Derry is just a memory now. A good memory, but a memory nonetheless.

It’s strange. Because if someone had asked Bill two days ago what he thought of Derry, he would have ripped it to shreds. He would have called it, “the bit of dog sh-sh-shit that just won’t rub out of the bb-buh-bottom of America’s shoe.”

But now all he can think about is the library with Ben. Impromptu history lessons with Mike. Swapping cigarettes with Beverly. Laughing until his ribs hurt with Richie. Ice cream with Eddie. Post-nightmare cuddling with Georgie. Kissing Stan on his childhood bed.

That last one stings a little, and Bill pushes it to the back of his mind.

“How far away ah-are we going?” he asks, just to get his mind off Stan.

“You’ll see,” Robert grins.

“New York ww-wuh-would be cool,” Bill says, a smile flickering on his lips. “I’ve nn-nuh-never been. But it would be cool to ss-suh-see a real life Bruh-Broadway play.”

“Maybe someday we can go to New York,” Robert says, reaching over to squeeze Bill’s knee. “But right now we’re going a little farther.”

“How mm-muh-much farther?” Bill asks.

Robert is rubbing at his knee now, and Bill has the sudden urge to shake him off. He doesn’t.

“You ask a lot of questions, you know that?” Robert says. He chuckles a little.

He draws his hand back, placing it firmly on the steering wheel, and Bill finally feels like he can breathe again. He doesn’t dare say anything again, settling instead for staring out the window. No matter how far they go, it’s all the same. Buildings. Trees. Roads. Cars. If Bill shuts off his brain and just loses himself in the sights, he can almost pretend he’s still in Maine. Almost pretend he’s still in Derry. But then he remembers the style of the buildings are different, the types of trees are different, the way the roads are paved are different, the license plates on the cars are different. It’s all different, different, different. But it’s all the same.

-

They’re in Illinois when the police catch up with them.

Bill is brushing his teeth in front of the cracked bathroom mirror when old Butch Bowers comes knocking on the motel door. He doesn’t recognize the voices at first, just hears Robert swapping conversation with a deep, grumbling voice. Then the door slams shut, and Bill goes cold.

Something is Wrong. Because Robert hasn’t let either of them interact with another human being for longer than a few seconds at a time since they started this journey. He listens carefully, trying to piece everything together. The voices are still talking, quiet enough that Bill can’t hear what they’re saying. It makes Bill crazy, to sit here and do nothing. But opening the door and actually _seeing_ what’s happening seems off limits. It’s too easy.

“Billy.” _Knock, knock, knock_. Bill jumps, nearly sending his toiletries flying across the floor. “You almost done in there?”

“I - Um - Yuh-Yeah,” Bill says. He tosses his toothbrush back into his toiletry bag, hand shaking, before turning to open the door.

The sight of Butch makes Bill dizzy. The man is terrifying, terrifying enough that Bill’s first instinct is to run - nevermind that there’s nowhere to run to. But he’s also his ticket out of here. Bill’s almost ashamed by how much his heart soars at the sight of Butch’s crooked, yellow teeth.

“Billy,” Robert says, wrapping an arm around Bill’s shoulder and pushing him out of the bathroom, “you remember Butch, don’t you?”

Bill nods. “Course.”

“I’m here to take you home, Billy,” Butch says. His gaze lingers on Bill, icy cold and Wrong.

“Oh,” is all Bill finds himself saying.

“Do you want to go home, Billy?” Robert asks.

_Yes_ , Bill thinks.

“No,” he says. Then, almost on instinct, “It ww-wuh-was-wasn’t good for me there. Too many bb-bad memories.”

“I thought you might say that,” Butch says. He takes a step forward. Bill shrinks back. The only thing holding him upright is Robert’s arm. “So Bob Gray, here, and I struck up a good deal.”

Robert nods, squeezing Bill’s shoulder. “I just need you to do a favor for me.”

Bill forces his eyes off of Butch, glancing up at Robert with wide eyes. “Wh-Wh-What’s that?”

“Be good for Butch.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Bill alone with Butch Fucking Bowers.

His brain seems to have caught up with the rest of his emotions by that point, and he spins on his heel and bolts back into the bathroom. He slams the door shut, the bang resonating so loudly throughout the room that Bill fears the door would fall right off its hinges. But it doesn’t, and Bill slides the lock into place.

Butch jiggles the doorknob, slamming his open palm against the door when it doesn’t budge. “C’mon, kid. Just come out. Don’t you want to stay here?”

“No,” Bill says, voice heavy with unshed tears. “I ww-wuh-wah-want to go hh-home.”

For a moment, for a single, insane moment, Bill expects Butch to agree to take him back to Derry. Expects him to go back on his deal. Expects him to say, “ _Well why didn’t you say so sooner, kid. Why don’t you just come on out and I’ll drive you home. Eddie will make you soup and Beverly will tell you she_ told you so _, but it won’t matter because you’ll be with them. It won’t matter because you’ll be happy._ ”

But Butch just laughs. “You kids never know what you want.”

Tears roll down Bill’s cheeks. A moment later he’s on the floor, back pressed firmly against the rickety door. Every punch from Butch’s fist seems to send Bill’s body rocketing forward. He’s positive the door is going to fly right off its hinges. Maybe he’ll get lucky and a particularly large piece will fall on his skull. Maybe it’ll knock him right up to heaven, or down to hell, if you believe in that sort of thing. And maybe Butch will do whatever he wants with his corpse, but that will be okay because at least Bill won’t have to experience it.

“C’mon, kid,” Butch sneers, landing another punch against the door. “Bob and I made a deal.”

_You’re the deal._

Bill pulls his knees up to his chest, hands pressed firmly over his ears.

Butch grabs the doorknob again, shaking the door vigorously. “You know better than to make me mad.”

“I wanna gg-guh-go home,” Bill repeats, quiet enough that only he can hear himself. Then, louder, “I wanna go home!”

“You are home,” Butch says, and Bill can almost see that fucking sneer on his face. “Bob said he’d take good care of you. He’s taken good care of you so far, hasn’t he?” Bill lets out a loud sob. He buries his face in his knees. “ _Hasn’t he?_ ”

“Yes,” Bill sobs out.

“Then just let him carry out his deal,” Butch says. He shakes the doorknob again. “It’s not that hard.”

Bill shakes his head, curling in further on himself. “I don’t ww-wuh-want to.”

Silence.

For a single, glorious moment Bill thinks maybe he’s gotten through to Butch. Maybe he’s going to take him home. Maybe he’s going to help him.

“You know your friends have been breaking and entering,” Butch says. “And I’ve chosen to overlook that little detail. But I could be convincing certain people to be pressing charges instead, if that’s what you want.”

It doesn’t sound right. The Losers have never had a record, they’ve certainly never broken into someone’s house before. But, still, the threat is clear. And Bill can’t just ignore it.

He stands on shaky legs, half terrified they’re going to collapse at any minute. His hand is shaky too, as he reaches out to unlock the door. And the feeling only seems to get worse when he finds himself face to face with Butch.

He sniffles a little. The kind of sniffle one does when they’re doing their best to ignore the fact that their face is filthy with tears.

Butch grabs his chin, forcing him to stare upinto his eyes. “Why are you crying? We’re just trying to help you. Big boys don’t cry.”

“Ss-Suh-Sorry,” Bill says, before he really knows what he’s saying.

Butch just grunts and drags him over to the bed. He throws him down face first, and Bill lands with his face shoved into the mattress. He tries to sit up, but Butch grabs the back of his head, forcing his face back down onto the scratchy sheets.

Numbly, Bill can feel his clothes coming off. He can feel calloused fingers dragging along his skin. But Bill’s well trained at blocking it all out by now. He lays there quietly, mind blank and eyes still shiny with tears.

And then, quite suddenly, he’s not numb at all. Suddenly his hands are being forced behind his back, and suddenly the handcuffs are hard and cold against his bare skin. He can’t help but cry out, tugging uselessly at the restraints.

“Can’t take any chances now,” Butch says with a chuckle.

“You ffff-fucker,” Bill sneers out. “Get o-off. Get off me, tt-take me home. Tt-Tuh-Take me hh-home. _Tuh-Tuh-Take mm-me huh-home!_ ”

Butch shoves his face into the mattress again, effectively muffling his shouts.

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles. “And Robert said you were going to be quiet.”

Bill can feel silent tears slipping down his face. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. Things were supposed to be better.

-

Robert comes back two hours later.

By that time the handcuffs have come off, and Butch has finished with Bill, but not much else has changed. Bill is still lying face down on the mattress, and he has yet to find the strength to regather his clothes. Butch has since retreated to an uncomofrtable looking desk chair, where he lounges as he lazily flips through a thin magazine left by the room’s last patron. The tears have stopped, but the tracks are still sticky against Bill’s face. Though they’re nothing compared to the sticky blood and cum that coat his thighs.

Robert and Butch exchange a few words - nothing Bill really cares to listen to - and then the door slams shut.

For a second Bill is relieved.

“Hey, how are you doing?”

Then the second passes.

Bill doesn’t answer, hiding his face in the mattress he’s been forced to become so acquainted with.

_Smack_.

The pain reverberates through Bill’s legs, causing him to yelp. He glares up at Robert, not bothering to pick his head up from the mattress.

“You ll-left me,” he says.

“I told you, it was for the deal,” Robert says softly, rubbing at Bill’s upper thigh. It makes his legs twitch and he tries to squirm away, but Robert holds him firmly in place.

“B-Buh-But you left me,” Bill repeats. “With fucking Bowers.”  
“You say that like Butch is some kind of criminal.”

“Look what he dd-duh-did to my legs,” Bill hisses, as if Robert hasn’t done the same thing more times than he can count. “He ff-fuh-fucked them up.”

“You’re being a little dramatic, Billy,” Robert says. “He was helping us, now you get to stay here with me.” Now he’s got both hands on Bill’s thighs, slowly moving up to grab at the flesh of Bill’s ass. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Stop,” Bill says brokenly. “That huh-hur-hurts.”

Robert stands, but he isn’t done with Bill yet. He tugs on his hips, making his legs fall over the side of the bed.

“No,” Bill groans, trying to push himself up. “Not tt-tuh-tonight. I’m tt-tired. It hurts.”

“But I made sure you didn’t have to go back to that shit hole,” Robert says. “I helped you. Don’t you want to say thank you?”

“Thank y-you,” Bill grits out.

But Robert just laughs. And a moment later Bill hears the sound of a zipper coming undone, and he knows he’s lost.

-

Back in Derry, the remaining Losers are crowded around a hospital bed. In said hospital bed, is Stanley Uris. He’s doing better than he was when they first brought him in, but the doctors have refused to let him go quite yet. His injuries were too harsh to be treated without constant attention. At least, that’s what the nurses have said.

About a week ago, Stanley had woken up and immediately burst into tears when Eddie broke the news that Bill had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. Stan had begged Eddie to call him again, going on and on about Robert Gray and some cross country trip and all the awful things he was sure Robert was going to do to Bill. But no matter how many times Eddie - or any of the others - called, the answer was always the same. Nothing.

Now they’re waiting anxiously for Butch Bowers’ return.

“He’ll find him,” Ben is saying, same as he’s been saying for the past ten hours. “He knows who to look for, and it’s not like they could have gotten very far.”

“It’s Butch Bowers,” Mike says in dismay. “I’ll be surprised if he went looking at all.”

“Do you really think he would do that?” Stan asks quietly. The question is directed at Richie, who is laying on his back next to Stan on the stiff hospital bed, but it makes the whole room fall quiet. “Not bother looking for him at all?”

Richie shakes his head. “No.” Yes. “Of course he’ll look for him.” He’s probably glad to be rid of him. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

Stan doesn’t look convinced. He knows Butch, and he knows Mike is probably right. But he wants desperately to believe Richie, so he nods anyway. Sometimes a little white lie is the best reality.

The wait for Butch is long and painful, but it’s almsot worst when he arrives. His face is morose, but at the same time he seems almost smug. Like he knows something they don't. Stan has the sinking feeling that this is probably true.

“I’m sorry,” Butch says. The smug look only seems to get stronger behind the sympathetic shine in his eyes. “We couldn’t find your friend.”

“Did you find Robert?” Beverly asks, eyes almost as fiery as her hair. “Have you taken him into custody?”

“We did find Mister Gray,” Butch says. “But we could find no evidence-”

Shouting seems to burst from the inside out, bubbling quietly in their chests before spurting up their throats and out past their lips.

“No evidence?”

“What about the camera?”

“He kidnapped Stanley!”

“What do you mean you couldn’t find him?”

“We have evidence!”

Butch holds up one hand, effectively silencing them all.

“I understand this is a confusing time for all you,” he says, calm as a cucumber. As if there aren’t traumatized children involved. “But your rudimentary detective skills were subpar. There is nothing to prove that was Robert Gray’s camera-”

“It was in his house!” Ben blurts out, cheeks red with fury. “Under his bed! What other evidence do you need?”

“It cannot be used as evidence,” Butch continues. “It was found without a warrant. It would never hold up in court.”

“So?” Mike says. Beverly is gripping his hand, nails biting into his calloused palms. “We have Stan. That’s the only evidence you need-”

“Mister Uris is not emotionally stable.” Butch’s eyes flit across each of the Losers’ faces, studying each of their features, before landing on Stan. It makes Stan feel small and pathetic, and he instinctively shies away from Butch. “Nothing he says can be fully trusted.”

“That’s not fair!” Richie shouts.

“Life isn’t fair, kid,” Butch says. “Looks like you were mistaken about Mister Gray.”

“I wasn’t,” Stan murmurs, watching with a sinking heart as Butch disappears into the hallway and out of their grasp. “I wasn’t mistaken.”  
“We know,” Richie says. He’s still seething, there’s practically steam coming out of his ears, but Stan appreciates how he tries to stay calm for him.

“We’ll find Bill,” Mike says. “We found you, didn’t we? How much harder can it be to find him.”

-

A year later, Bill Denbrough is living out of a small house in Arizona. It had seemed to take forever, to travel across the entire country. And, worst of all, by the time they got there, all Bill wanted to do was turn around and go back home. No, not home. Derry. That place stopped being his home the day Georgie disappeared.

Though Arizona never feels very homey either. Despite how long he’s lived there, he can’t seem to make any real friends. Or find anything he really likes about it, for that matter. It's got sand, it's got sun, it's got weird lizards that shoot blood out of their eyes. And perhaps this is a shock, but Bill doesn’t find a lot of those particularly comforting.

Currently he’s laying splayed out on the bed, wearing nothing but his boxers as he tries to soak in the cool air from the shitty second hand fan. It sputters and coughs, like it might die at any moment, but it’s still the best one they own. Robert barely makes enough to pay the rent, much less to afford good AC. The summer nights are starting to become unbearable. Still, Robert insists on getting on top of him every night, just about drowning Bill in heat and sweat.

A few times Bill’s been just about positive he would die from the heat alone. But the last time he had voiced these concerns he had ended up sporting a black eye for nearly two weeks. Not to mention the nasty limp that he had the following day. He learned to shut his mouth after that.

Bill’s pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of a key in a lock. Heavy footsteps follow, and a moment later Robert’s face appears in the doorway.

“You look comfortable,” he chuckles.

Bill laughs. “I’m nuh-not. It’s so ff-fuh-fuh-fucking hot ou-out today.”

“Well, lucky for you, I picked up ice cream on the way home,” Robert says. “It’s in the freezer if you want any.”

“Yeah?” Bill says, pushing himself up so he’s leaning back on his elbows. “I’ll puh-pruh-probably eat some in a ll-little bit.”

“Ah-huh,” Robert says, and Bill doesn’t miss the hungry way his eyes rake over his body. It makes Bill want to curl into a little ball, something so small that Robert won’t be able to see a single inch of him. But instead he smiles. He smiles and absentmindedly spreads his legs, his boxers riding up to reveal an extra inch of newly tanned thigh.

Robert doesn’t waste a minute before crossing to his side, one hand reaching out to skirt up the soft skin of his inner thigh.

“I tt-tuh-take it work ww-wuh-was good?” Bill asks

“Don’t talk,” Robert says, not taking his eyes off Bill’s legs. His eyes finally dart up when he cups the side of Bill’s face, forcefully parting his lips with his thumb. Bill obediently sucks on it. “You’re prettier when you don’t talk. Why don’t you roll over for me?”

Bill does.

-

At the same moment, Stanley Uris is in his bedroom, trying to make to the best of his last few hours with his friends. He’ll be back in a month or two, of course, but the anniversary of his kidnapping is creeping up fast and he’s made it clear he can’t stand being in Derry for those two months.

“What am I gonna do without you?” Richie whines, overdramatic as ever. It’s nice to know he cares.

“You can figure it out,” Stan laughs. “You always do.”

Richie pouts. “Are you sure I can’t come?”

Stan rolls his eyes. “My aunt would kill me if I brought anyone else. Especially you, Rich, she would insist you have a terrible aura.”

“I detest that!” Richie huffs. “I have a great aura!”

“Sounds like you’re going to have a thrilling summer,” Ben teases.

“Drinking tea with your aunt,” Mike chimes in, “Frying alive.”

“Getting stabbed by cacti,” Bev grins.

“I am not going to get stabbed by a cactus!” Stan insists. “I think the likelihood is less likely than you think.”

“There are a lot of cacti there,” Eddie says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“I promise I’ll be extra careful around the cacti,” Stan says, even raising his right hand for good measure.

Eddie must think this is good enough because he nods seriously and says, “Good.”

“But, seriously, be careful, okay?” Mike says. His voice is suddenly very soft and very grave. It’s enough to make the hair on Stan’s arms stand on end, and Stan is suddenly reminded of waking up in the hospital to the sight of Mike’s blood drenched clothes.

“Course,” Stan says, voice sounding strained to his own ears. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Mike manages a smile after that. It’s small and tense and tired, but it’s a smile. And sometimes any smile is a good smile.

“We’ll be here,” he says.

“I love you,” Stan says. He isn’t sure what prompts it. Really, he’s only half aware he’s saying the words. But they felt right in the moment, and he doesn’t regret them. If anything he feels them more strongly after they’ve come out. “All of you. You’re the best friends I’ve ever had.”

The room choruses with eager “I love you too”s and, dismally, Stan thinks there’s only one voice missing.

_“And I think I’m in love with you.”_

The memory makes Stan’s breathing catch. He can still feel Bill’s breath against his face, Bill’s palms against his cheeks, Bill’s lips against his lips.

_“I think I’ve always been in love with you. Ever since we were kids.”_

Eddie’s the one to pull him out of his thoughts. “Bill loves you too.” He looks a little sad saying it, a little sad just thinking about Bill at all. “Wherever he is.”

The ghost of a smile tugs at Stan’s smile. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. And sometimes, as mentioned before, any smile is a good smile. “Yeah, I know.”

“If he’s still alive,” Richie blurts. Because he just can’t help himself.

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Bev hisses. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

To his credit, Richie at least manages to look ashamed. “Sorry. But you have to admit, it’s more likely than anything else.”

“Robert Gray said he wouldn’t hurt Bill,” Stan says, the words coming out as if they had to tread through cough syrup first. “He told me that. He said - He said he wouldn’t hurt him. He said he wouldn’t!”

“We believe you,” Mike says, eyes soft and earnest. “Don’t we, Rich?”

“Of course we do,” Richie says. His eyes are glued to his feet, because he hates upsetting Stan, and he knows everything he’s about to say is only going to hurt him. “But that was a year ago. Who knows how things might have changed by now. It’s not like we can _trust_ Robert’s word. He probably got everything he wanted from Bill - fucked him as much as he could - and then ditched his body by the side of the road.”

“That’s not true!” Stan insists, only half aware of what he’s saying. “He - He’s not - _That’s not true!_ ”

“Richie, _stop_ ,” Ben says in a high pitched hiss. “There’s no reason for this. Especially not now.”

“‘M sorry,” Richie repeats. Stan figures he has more to say, and he’s thankful Richie chooses against voicing any of it.

“He’s not dead,” Stan says weakly.

Richie opens his mouth, probably to argue, but their friends shoot him matching glares and all he manages to get out is, “Okay.”

The distress Stan’s feeling must be evident on his face because a moment later Mike’s pulling him into his arms. They’re strong and steady, and for a moment Stan feels like all his troubles have been lifted off his shoulders.

“We’ll find him,” he says. “Eventually he’ll come home.”

Stan knows none of them _really_ believe that, not even Mike, but it’s nice to hear.

“Thanks,” Stan murmurs.

“Be safe,” Ben says, simply because he can’t stand this topic of conversation any longer. Because he can’t stand to lie to Stan any longer. “We’re going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Stan says. His voice is soft and broken, like he can barely get the words out. He is going to miss them _so fucking much_. So much so that he had almost considered cancelling his trip half a dozen times in the past couple months. How hard could it be? He’ll have his friends, and rationally he knows Robert is gone. He knows he’s vanished off into the world, never to be seen again. But he’s been getting more and more nervous as the anniversary date of his kidnapping grows closer, and if he’s being honest, he’s fucking excited to be getting out of this town. He cannot fucking wait to be rid of all these goddamn reminders.

Everywhere he turns seems to remind him of Robert. Or, worse, of Bill. At least if he’s reminded of Robert, he knows how he’s feeling. He knows he’s scared. But with Bill, he has no idea how he’s feeling. Still scared, he thinks, but what of, he hasn’t got a clue.

-

Stan lands in Arizona that night. His aunt is there to pick him up, welcoming him with open arms that, according to her, “ _just don’t have the bone structure to carry any of that bulky luggage_ .” So Stan is left to lug everything he owns through the airport and into the car by himself. He doesn’t mind, though. He had started working out with Mike and Ben a few months ago, for reasons he could never quite bring himself to admit but which everyone knows anyway. Maybe if Robert ever _did_ come back, Stan would be able to fight him off this time.

“How was your flight?” grins Aunt Cynthia. “Not too bad, I hope? You were okay flying by yourself?”

“It was alright,” Stan says. He does wish his parents had been able to come. He barely knows Aunt Cynthia, last time he saw her he hadn’t even hit double digits yet. But both his parents had gotten caught up in work and had been forced to send him off on his own. He supposes it’s better than nothing. At least he’s out of Maine.

Aunt Cynthia, as is revealed on the short trip over, is very chatty. Stan can’t decide if this is better or worse than the awkward silence he had been expecting. On one hand, it leaves very little room for him to overthink his decision or worry about psychopath kidnappers coming after him again. But, on the other hand, he has no idea what to say back. But Aunt Cynthia doesn’t seem to mind. She doesn’t even seem to notice the fact that Stan is barely responding, content to chat away with herself.

“Here it is!” chirps Aunt Cynthia. “Your home for the summer. Nice, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Stan says. And it is nice. But it’s not home. And as much as he is glad to be away from Derry, he finds he’s already starting to miss it so fucking much. “You have a lot of cacti in your front yard.” Stan thinks there are more cacti in front of Aunt Cynthia’s house than there were on the entire trip down here.

Aunt Cynthia just laughs joyfully. “I love to have a garden. C’mon, I’ll show you to your room.”

Stan’s room, as it turns out, is simply the guest room turned Aunt Cynthia’s spare closet. There’s a twin sized bed pushed up against the far wall, with a big square window directly above it and a small bedside table at the foot of the bed. The table, however, is unusable as it is piled high with various dresses and shoes.

“Thank you,” Stan says, because it would be rude to say anything else. “It’s very nice.”

“Thank you,” Aunt Cynthia says, looking genuinely pleased with herself. “I thought I cleaned it up well.”

Stan doesn’t bother mentioning the piles of clothes hanging off the doorknob, or bunched up in the corners. Or the fact that the curtains seem to have been replaced with, somehow, even more clothes.

“I’ll let you get settled in,” Aunt Cynthia says, “and I’ll get started on dinner. You must be starving.”

“Yeah, I am.” But when Stan turns around, Aunt Cynthia is already gone, door shut firmly behind her.

Stan tries not to be too offended by that, and instead busies himself with unpacking his suitcase. Arizona is the farthest he’s ever been from Derry, and as much as he hates to admit it, he’s a little homesick. Just a little. He doubts anyone could ever be more than _a little_ homesick for Derry.

But he’s _a lot_ homesick for his friends. Maybe he should have asked if Richie could come along, it would be better than sitting, alone, amongst a pile of clothes for the next two months. But he couldn’t ask that of Richie. He couldn’t tear him away from everything just because Stan’s scared.

Stan doesn’t want to be a coward anymore. He doesn’t want to rely on his friends to keep him safe.

Stan can keep himself safe. He can be brave.

-

Two weeks later and Stan has yet to make friends. Or to leave the house at all for that matter. He spends most of his time scribbling away in a heavy journal, the one his therapist - a kind middle aged woman with wire rimmed glasses and frizzy hair - had gently pushed him into buying.

_“It’ll be good for you to have somewhere to put your thoughts,”_ she had said. _“To get them out of your own head.”_

Stan had been resistant at first, but by now he’s fallen in love with the idea. He can see why Bill was always hunched over his own notebooks. The pen is heavy and sturdy in his hand, and seeing his thoughts spread out over the paper, seeing them become real, is almost magical.

Aunt Cynthia, as it turns out, does not agree with this sentiment.

“A growing boy like yourself should be going out!” she’s insisting. “Making friends! It’s not healthy for you to be locked up all summer.”

“I have friends!” Stan says. “They’re just - They’re just not _here_.”

“But you could make friends here,” Aunt Cynthia continues to push. “There’s a real nice boy just down the street. He’s around your age-”

“I don’t _want_ new friends! I’m not even going to be here that long!”

Aunt Cynthia crosses her arms over her chest. “So you think by next summer you’ll be magically cured? That you’ll be able to stay home?”

Stan’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. He wants to say something, wants to defend himself. But at the end of the day he knows she’s right. His therapy sessions have been a slow process. Every time he’s overcome one thing, there’s something else to deal with. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to face summer in Derry again.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

Aunt Cynthia claps her hands together, making the bracelets on her wrists jangle. They sound like mini church bells, and distantly Stan is reminded of that old Christmas movie Richie made him watch.

_Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings._

If Stan had his doubts before, he’s certain now. There are no angels. Certainly none looking out for him.

“I’ve been baking cookies,” Aunt Cynthia says, snapping Stan out of his thoughts. He realizes what she wants as soon as the words have managed to register, but he’s not fast enough. She’s shoving a tupperware of cookies in his arms before he can argue and, with one hand on his shoulder, pushing him towards the door. “I was thinking you could offer it to the family down the street, give you a reason to talk to their son.”

“What - I can’t - Would that not be a little weird?” Stan asks incredulously. “Some strange teenager offering them a plateful of cookies?”

Aunt Cynthia waves him off with one hand, her chunky ring glistening in the sunlight. “They won’t think anything like that. I’m sure they’ll appreciate the treat.”

She smiles in a way that tells Stan he’s not getting out of this. So he sighs, offers her a perhaps all together too snarky smile of his own, and heads out the door.

The home of the boy Aunt Cynthia so desperately wants Stanley to befriend is only two houses down, and yet it’s maybe the most miserable walk of Stan’s life. It feels like walking through Hell. If Hell was nothing but desert and tan-colored houses for as far as the eye could see. Between that and the clothes sticking to his back, Stan has a feeling he might not be far off.

Without even realizing he’s reached the house, he knocks on the door.

There’s some commotion inside, distant grumbling and the muffled sound of voices. Nothing too off putting.

Instead of thinking about that, Stan wonders what exactly he’ll say when he’s inevitably faced with this boy’s parents. _“Hi my aunt baked these cookies for you in the hopes that your son would be my pity friend. Hope you like chocolate chip.”_ Stan bites back a giggle. It’s all too pathetically ridiculous.

He can hear footsteps now.

What if the parents don’t answer at all? What if Stan has to talk to the kid? He doesn’t know if he could handle the humiliation.

Although a part of him wants the boy to be an asshole. A part of him wants an excuse to not have to hang out with him. He’s grown comfortable inside, like a housecat who’s merely seen the outside through the living room window. It’s nice in theory, but big and terrifying in action.

Stan’s snapped out of his thoughts as the door starts to creak open. He braces himself for an all too familiar face. The jeering snarl of Henry Bowers comes to mind. There are millions of Henry Bowers’ in the world, and it would be just Stan’s luck that he got stuck with another one all the way on the other side of the country, wouldn’t it?

Except it’s not Henry Bowers who he’s met with. Instead he’s met with warm ocean eyes. Despite the circumstances, Stan feels himself melting. He’s immediately comforted by their presence, immediately soothed by the way they twinkle in the sun.

And yet what is he supposed to say? He had been half convinced Bill was dead, and he had been fully convinced he would never see him again. And, yet, here he is.

He’s got sweat on his brow and he’s thinner than Stan remembers, but he’s here. And that’s what matters most.

Bill’s breath hitches at the sight of him, and for a moment they just stand there, lost in their own little world. Then Bill glances behind him and shuts the door, quietly so as to not alert anyone else.

For a moment Stan’s confused. Who would he be alerting? Then it dawns on him.

_Robert_.

His hand curls around the tupperware. He should run. He should take the cookies and run. There’s no reason for him to stay. Not when there’s a monster behind those doors.

Stan’s suddenly reminded of being a kid, when he would beg his parents to check behind the closet door for monsters. Those monsters had big teeth and eye-sockets without eyes and a taste for human flesh. This monster only has a knife. Though he does crave blood in a way that Stan had never thought humanly possible before.

He takes a step back.

“Ww-Wuh-Wait!” Bill’s hand wraps around Stan’s wrist.

Bill. That’s a reason to stay. He can’t leave Bill. Still, he can’t seem to gather up the courage to say anything.

Bill takes a step closer. Stan finds himself doing the same, closing the gap between them until he’s close enough to see the flicks of green in Bill’s eyes.

“I th-th-thought you ww-were dd-duh-dead,” Bill whispers.

Stan swallows thickly. “I thought you were dead too.”

He can see tears welling up in Bill’s eyes now. The sight breaks his heart. The only thing worse than not seeing Bill at all is seeing him like this, so broken and vulnerable. So Stan doesn’t really have any other choice but to set the cookies aside and cup Bill’s face in his hands.

Bill lets out a shuddering sob at the feeling. He leans into Stan’s touch without a second thought, and Stan can’t help but wonder when was the last time someone was this gentle with him.

“I ll-luh-looked eh-ev-every-everywhere ff-for yuh-you,” he says.

“I know,” Stan murmurs. “The Losers told me.”

“They ff-found you?” Bill asks, as if the answer isn’t obvious.

Stan nods. “They found me just in time. I’m okay now.” Or as okay as he’ll ever be. “They’ve been keeping me safe.”

Instead of answering, because Bill looks like he’s going to shatter if he has to say another word, Bill slips his arms around Stan’s waist and tugs him closer. Stan wastes no time in returning the hug, arms wrapping around Bill’s neck and chest pressing firmly against Bill’s. The heat makes the hug just about unbearable, but neither moves to pull away. Stan isn’t going to let something as silly as the sun tear them apart again.

“I hh-have to get bb-buh-back inside,” Bill whispers, making no moves to remove himself from Stan.

“Don’t,” Stan pleads. “Don’t go back to him. You can come back with me.”

Bill doesn’t ask how Stan knows who he’s with. Of course he’s figured it out. He’s Stan, smart as a whip and sweet as fresh honey.

Bill shakes his head and, ever so slowly, starts to peel his arms from around Stan. He smiles sadly as he does, looking like the action physically pains him.

“I mm-muh-missed you,” he whispers.

“I missed you too,” Stan says, just as quiet. “I’m - I’m here for the summer. So you should-”

Bill nods. “I’ll ss-see you tonight. I puh-pruh-prom-promise. You can tuh-tell me eh-ev-everything.” He chuckles softly. It’s not as bright as it used to be, but it makes Stan’s heart stutter nonetheless. He’s missed that sound. “Thuh-Thuh-Thanks ff-for the cookies.”

“My aunt made them,” Stan says dumbly.

Bill just laughs again and scoops them up, waving to Stan as he disappears back into the house. Back into the jaws of the beast.

-

Bill bypasses the living room, where Robert is slumped in front of the TV, to slip into the kitchen. He sets the tupperware on the counter before reaching in to grab one of the cookies. It’s not warm anymore, but it’s still soft and biting into it is like devouring a small piece of heaven. Bill can’t remember the last time he had eaten something made with so much care.

Bill grins as he stares at the tupperware. It’s the only proof he has that he didn’t hallucinate the entire thing. It looks a little odd amongst the rest of the kitchenware, but he loves it nonetheless. A little piece of Stanley Uris in his otherwise crowded, bland life.

The thought warms his heart. It feels like coming back from the dead.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts as Robert enters the kitchen, a deep frown etched onto his face. “Who was that?”

“The ll-lady dd-duh-down the suh-struh-street,” Bill lies. “She just ww-wuh-wanted to make ss-sure we were doing ah-alright during this huh-heatwave.”

Robert hums and grabs a cookie. Every inch of Bill screams out to bat it out of his hands. Stan gave him that, what right does Robert have to take it?

He forces himself to stay still.

“What did you tell her?” Robert asks.

“That ww-we were oh-okay,” Bill says. “I th-think she thinks it’s oh-odd that we don’t tt-tuh-talk to any-anyone.”

Robert shrugs. “No reason to talk to anyone.” He stares at Bill over his cookie, his gaze sharp and calculating. “Right?”

Stan’s face shines in Bill’s mind, his smile wide and laughter bubbling out of his chest.

Bill nods. “Rr-Ruh-Right.”

“Good boy,” Robert praises. “Now c’mon,” he puts one hand on Bill’s hip, directing him out of the kitchen and back into the living room with ease, “don’t leave me to watch all by myself.”

Bill finds himself back on Robert’s lap a moment later, his back pressed against Robert’s front and Robert’s hands on his thighs. It’s sticky and uncomfortable, and Bill has to fight the urge to squirm away. But last time he had done something like that Robert had gone ballistic. Bill doesn’t dare set him off again.

So he sits still as Robert’s fingers fiddle with the button of his jeans. He pops it open, thumb circling the outside, before slipping it back into place. This repeats a few times. Enough to make Bill nervous, though he doesn’t dare show it. Robert doesn’t want someone who’s going to fight with him. Robert wants a willing victim.

“Baby,” Robert purrs. “Why don’t you make me feel good?”

Bill slips numbly off his lap. The floor is hard under his knees, but Robert wouldn’t be happy if Bill wasted time trying to find a pillow to kneel on. Some deep dark corner of Bill’s brain wonders if Robert likes to see the bruises on his knees.

Robert’s fingers curl into Bill’s hair and, as if on cue, Bill’s brain clicks off. Physically, he’s on his knees waiting for the other man to unzip his pants. But mentally he’s off somewhere far away. Usually one of the Losers are with him, off on adventures in far off lands where he doesn’t have to worry about any of this shit.

Today Stan is with him. Sweet, bright-eyed Stan who came back from the dead to deliver fresh baked cookies to his front door. He looks different now. His looks have matured, making him look more like a young adult than the boyish face Bill remembers.

He wonders if the others have changed as well. He figures they must have. But how? Did Beverly grow out her hair? Did Richie finally buy those new glasses he had been wanting? Is Eddie still wearing his old fanny pack? Did Mike finally make it on the football team? Has Ben managed to overcome his self consciousness?

The lack of answers makes Bill ill. Never in his life did he think he wouldn’t know who his friends grew up to be. And yet here he is. Alone, on the other side of the country, and without a single clue regarding who his friends are becoming.

Would they even consider him their friends anymore? He had left them. Simply disappeared off the face of the Earth. What half decent friend does that?

But he could make things right again. He could go back. Stan had offered to take him back. He can imagine it now, slipping out the living room window - the one that’s never quite locked - and never coming back.

Except, could he? His last few weeks with his old friends had been nothing but pain and fighting. He had refused to admit anything was wrong to them, and in doing so, had only succeeded in pushing them away. Especially Richie. He doesn’t think the two of them had a halfway decent conversation since Bill had met Robert.

Would Richie be willing to forgive him for running off with the older man? Would any of them? Hell, would _Stan_ forgive him? He had seemed willing to, but what the hell does Bill know. He’s been missing for a year - Stan said he thought he was dead. What reason do they have to forgive him?

Robert gives Bill’s hair a sharp tug, effectively yanking him out of his thoughts. Bill gasps softly at the sensation and snaps his eyes shut, just in time to protect them from the warm, sticky sensation that coats his face.

For a moment it’s silent. And within the darkness, it feels like the rest of the world has crumbled away. It’s just him and the dirt that has crawled under his skin, burrowing itself there and making itself at home. Reminding Bill that no matter what, no matter how many showers he takes, no matter how hard he scrubs, he will never be clean again.

Robert groans above him.

Slowly, the world starts to put itself back together. By the time Bill opens his eyes, all the pieces have reformed. He can feel the cracks, like the very fabric of the universe is ready to shatter at any given moment. But everything looks perfectly fine.

“Pretty boy,” Robert coos. He cups Bill’s face with one hand, smearing the sticky sensation across his cheek. “So good for me.”

Bill hums softly. He doesn’t smile. “I th-thuh-think I’m gonna take a sh-sh-show-shower.”

“Alright.” Robert’s hand slips away from Bill’s face. “Don’t take too long.”

“I ww-wuh-won’t.”

The bathroom is a welcomed escape from Robert’s prying eyes and wandering fingers. But it offers little solace. Because no matter how hard he scrubs, he can’t get rid of the dirt.

-

If Bill thought sneaking out was hard when he lived with his parents, it’s nearly impossible now. Even in the heat, Robert sleeps with an arm slung around Bill’s waist. At this point, Bill doubts it’s because of any sort of affection. It’s a cage. Robert would deny it, would call Bill paranoid and tell him he’s been watching too much TV. But Bill knows it’s true. He can’t even slip away to grab a glass of water without alerting Robert.

Which is why Bill needs a new plan.

“I’m guh-going to the g-gr-grocery store.” He doesn't look at Robert as he says it. He’s sure if he does, Robert will know he’s lying. It’s all a part of the cage. Just another way to keep him in.

Robert looks up from the television with a surprised look. “Now? It’s nearly eleven.”

“Ww-We ran ou-out of ch-chi-chips,” Bill says lamely.

“And you can’t get them tomorrow?”  
“I ww-wuh-want th-them nn-nuh-nuh-now!”

Robert regards him closely. Something about the look in his eye chills Bill to the bone. Does he know where he’s going? Does he know who he’s going to meet? What if he heard Stan’s voice at the door? The attempts Bill made to make friends didn’t go well, he can’t imagine what it would be like if Robert knew he’s reconnecting with Stan. But then, “Alright. The one down by the pharmacy, right?”

Bill nods. “That’s the oh-one.”

“Don’t take long.”  
“I won’t!”

He doesn’t wait a moment longer before turning on his heel and walking towards the door as fast as he possibly can without outright running.

The fresh air is a welcomed change. Even if it’s still stuffy with heat, it feels like a chance to escape the cage Robert has built around him. Bill knows he’ll be back in that cage by the end of the night, knows there’s no real escape. No real freedom. But sometimes it feels nice to pretend.

_Don’t go back to him. You can come back with me._

Stan’s words echo through his head. They bounce around his skull like marbles rolling through an empty drawer of a forgotten bedside table. For a moment Bill allows himself to pretend like that’s the reality. He pretends like he’s walking away from Robert for good. Pretends like Stan could protect him. Pretends like he would be safe in his arms.

But even the fantasy can’t withstand the harsh reality of the truth. And the truth is that Bill is that bedside table. Forgotten by the Losers. Nothing but pretty bedroom decor for Robert. It hurts but it’s true, and there’s no use pretending otherwise.

Stan’s room is lit up with a singular lamp. It bathes the walls in a warm, orange light and washes over Stan so his hair lights up like a halo on his head. All Bill can do is stand outside his window and stare. Stan looks ethereal, like a guardian angel sent down by the heavens to sweep Bill off his feet and save him from his disaster of a life.

But then Stan moves and the light shifts, leaving the darkness to engulf him. Stan’s not a guardian angel. He’s just a boy. A boy who can’t possibly save Bill on his own.

Bill raises his hand and raps his knuckles against the glass.

Stan just about jumps out of his skin, and when he turns around Bill can see the fear in his eyes as clear as day. But he relaxes when he sees Bill. His hands are only slightly shaky as he opens the window.

“Ss-Sorry,” Bill says. “I didn’t mm-mean-”

“It’s okay,” Stan says automatically. “I’m just - just jumpy.”

Bill wants to ask why, but he bites his tongue. He thinks he knows why, he thinks he knows everything. And the less confirmation he has, the better.

“Sorry.”

Stan shrugs. He looks like he wants to say something. Instead he asks, “Did you like the cookies?”

Bill wants to ask what Stan’s thinking about. What he says instead is, “Yeah, they ww-were delicious. Tell your au-aunt th-thank you.”

“I definitely will. She takes great pride in her cooking.”

Bill snorts out a laugh. “She sh-should, I think she mm-muh-might be a genius in the kit-kitchen.”

“Yeah, well, don’t let her hear you say that, it’ll go all to her head.” But even as Stan says it, he’s wearing that soft smile that tells Bill he doesn’t really mean it. It’s the same smile he used to wear when he told Richie his jokes weren’t funny. The same smile Bill used to dream about. The same smile Bill thought had been taken from the earth forever. “Um - Do you wanna come in? My aunt has AC so…”

“Oh th-thank God,” Bill says. He scrambles in through the window, nearly falling headfirst in his haste to get inside. He’s sure there would have been a crash that sent Stan’s aunt running if the mattress weren’t there. But, luckily, the bed is there to catch him. It’s smaller than the one he shares with Robert, and not as soft, but Bill thinks he likes this bed better anyway. Because Stan is kneeling on it, hands reaching out to steady him and curls falling into his eyes. Maybe he’s not an angel, but Bill still thinks he’s beautiful.

“You okay?” Stan asks with a little laugh.

Bill nods breathlessly. “I can’t bb-buh-believe you’re really huh-huh-here.”

“Yeah, me either.” Stan’s voice is quiet, barely audible, but it makes Bill’s heart pound all the same. “I - um - I came here to get away from everything, ya know. And then,” he gestures helplessly to Bill. “It feels like something out of a fairy tale.”

It is rather like a fairy tale, Bill thinks. The princess in the tower. The knight in shining armor. The dragon hoarding his wealth. The only difference is that fairy tales get happy endings. In the real world, the dragon gets to keep his treasures.

“I’m just hh-hap-happy to see you ah-again,” Bill whispers.

Stan’s features soften. For a moment the only thing Bill wants to do is kiss him again. How long ago was it when Bill first kissed him? Only a year? It feels much longer than that. It feels like a lifetime has passed since Bill confessed to Stanley Uris. Hell, it feels like a lifetime since he last saw any of the Losers. The person he was back in Derry is an entirely different person than who he is now. Lived an entirely different life. Had entirely different worries. Nothing has been the same since he got in that truck all those months ago.

In his mind, a flash of another lifetime appears. One where he had stayed in Derry. One where Stan had come home safe and sound. Where Bill hadn’t worried this much about kissing him again. He thinks, in that lifetime, they could have been happy.

But that isn’t reality. And Bill supposes he’ll never really know.

In reality, he can’t kiss Stan. Not again. Not after what happened last time.

“I’m happy to see you too,” Stan murmurs. “You look - Um - You look different.”

Bill forces a smile onto his face, trying to ignore how his cheeks flush at the comment. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course it’s okay. It’s just...weird.”

“Weird how?”

Stan shrugs. “In my head, I kind of forgot you were getting older too. I just kept picturing who you were a year ago. You look older now.”

It’s not just that he looks older. Bill looks like a mess. He knows it’s true. He had gotten almost dangerously thin the last year or so, and the faint outlines of bruises can still be seen littering his skin. But Bill’s thankful Stan didn’t bring those up. He doesn’t like thinking about how recent events have changed him.

“You look different too,” Bill says softly. “In a good way. I had forgotten how curly your hair is.”

Stan laughs, like windchimes in the summer. “Yeah, Richie keeps complaining that I have better hair than him. Beverly keeps trying to tell him he just has to take better care of his hair but he won’t listen.”

Bill’s smile flickers at the mention of his friends. It’s like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him and leaving his head spinning. It’s strange to think how they still exist outside of the versions of themselves living inside Bill’s head. They’re doing something right now. As Bill sits and talks to Stan, the rest of the Losers are off on their own adventure. He doesn’t know what it is, and he doubts he ever will, but they’re doing _something_. The thought of it makes him a little crazy.

“Hey.” Stan’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts, but Bill welcomes the distraction wholeheartedly. If he thinks about the Losers too hard, he’ll fall down a dark hole. “You okay?”

Bill nods. “Yuh-Yeah I - um - I’m jj-just thinking. I need - I need to go to the ss-st-store before it’s too ll-luh-late.”

Stan furrows his eyebrows. “The store?”

“That’s wh-where I told Robert I ww-wuh-was going.”

“Oh. Well, I can drive you.”

Bill blinks in surprise. “You drive?”

“Yeah,” Stan says, a little laugh bubbling past his lips. “I got my license a few months ago. Crazy, huh?”

“Yeah. Cc-Cruh-Crazy.”

If Stan notices the shift in Bill’s expression, he doesn’t say anything. Some things are better left unacknowledged.

“I just have to get the car from my aunt,” Stan says. “I can meet you outside.”

-

Seeing Stan drive is weird. Like Bill just stepped into an alternate dimension. The Stan he remembers isn’t old enough to get a license. The Stan in his head will never be old enough to get a license. Forever trapped at fifteen.

But the real Stan is getting older. The real Stan has a license. The real Stan is going to grow up, get a job, get married, start a family.

Bill is going to be stuck with Robert for the rest of his life, going from one shithole town to the next.

But for now he’s with Stan. And for now that’s good enough.

He watches Stan glide into the parking lot, marveling at how smoothly he slides into the nearest parking space. Robert’s stops were always _stop-and-go_ and always left Bill with an upset stomach. He drove like his life depended on it. But Stan was swift and precise. Bill had nearly forgotten what it was like to leave the car without feeling carsick.

“What do you need to get?” Stan asks.

“Ch-Chi-Chips.”

“Any kind?”

Bill shrugs. “It ww-wuh-was the ff-first excuse I could th-think of.”

The smile slips from Stan’s lips. For a moment they part, like he’s about to say something. But the words die before they even make it out. It leaves them in a suffocating silence, the kind Bill would like to grab by the throat and throw out the window. But some things don’t have a physical form for a reason. Some things aren’t meant to be confronted.

The grocery store is relatively small. The cashier today is someone he recognizes from the local high school, but he doesn’t bother saying hello. He had learned long ago that making friends would only end in heartache.

But having Stan back is nice. Even if it won’t last forever.

“What hh-huh-have you been uh-up to the pp-past year?” Bill doesn’t look at Stan as he asks. A part of him is afraid of what he would see. Afraid that everything he’s been scared of is hiding in those eyes.

“Therapy,” Stan says blandly.

“Bb-Buh-Because you were mmm-muh-muh-missing?” Bill says, keeping his eyes glued to the brightly colored bags of junk food.

“Mhm,” Stan hums.

Bill nods. He’s dying to ask more. _Where were you? Why didn’t you come home? Was it all my fault?_

But he doesn’t think he wants the answers to those questions. So he smiles tightly and plucks a bag of Cheetos off the isle wall. “Do you ww-want anything?”

Stan shakes his head. “I thought you didn’t like Cheetos.”

Bill flushes. The sight of it makes Stan’s stomach churn. When was the last time he saw Bill blush? He’s instantly transported back to that day in Bill’s bedroom, when Bill had kissed him and then begged him to let him do it again. Stan replays that moment a lot. But it’s different when Bill’s looking back at him now, eyes blue like the ocean and cheeks stained red.

“I dd-duh-don’t,” Bill says. “But they ww-were Richie’s favorite so,” he shrugs.

Stan makes a soft _ah_ sound.

It’s true, it’s nearly impossible to walk into Richie’s room and not find a half eaten bag of Cheetos. In middle school his fingers were always coated in the orange dust. Stan used to whine about just how disgusting it was, to have to see the orange stains on Richie’s fingertips. Richie would tease him relentlessly over it. But within a week Richie was washing his hands every day after lunch, scrubbing until you couldn’t see an inch of Cheeto dust anywhere.

Sometimes Stan thinks he misses that Richie. The Richie that would let Stan stand over his shoulder and dictate just how long he had to wash his hands for. There’s something different about Richie now. Maybe it’s the far away look he gets in his eye when he thinks no one’s looking, or maybe it’s how every stranger has suddenly become a monster in his eyes. Something changed in Richie in the months Stan was gone, and sometimes Stan worries he might never be the same again.

“He misses you, ya know,” Stan says. “He - um - He told me about your fight. At the clubhouse.”

Bill shuffles awkwardly. “I didn’t bb-br-break his nose, dd-duh-did I?”

“No.” Stan cracks a smile. “You might have hurt his pride, though.”

It’s meant to be a joke - because God knows Stan would do anything to see Bill smile again - but all it succeeds in doing is making the guilty look in Bill’s eyes expand by tenfold. “Ss-Suh-Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay-”

“I sh-should bb-buh-buy these.”

Stan pauses. “Right.”

He clamps his teeth down on his lower lip, refusing to let the words come out as he follows Bill to the register.

There’s so much he wants to tell him. Like how waking up in that hospital without him was like a nightmare come to life. The love of his life had run off with his kidnapper, and there was nothing Stanley could do about it. All he could do was lay awake at night and pray that somehow, someway he would find his way back.

And now here he is. But actually telling Bill what happened is maybe the worst punishment of all. It wasn’t enough to suffer for three months in a dark basement. Now he has to live with those memories, has to pull the blanket over his head when he sleeps in fear of the monster returning from the beyond. And then, worst of all, he has to tell an innocent soul that they are the reason it had all happened.

He doesn't know if he could do that to Bill. He doesn’t know if he could bear to watch the light die from his eyes.

“Hey,” the cashier drawls, and when Stan looks over he finds her eyes lingering on him. She pops her gum loudly. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

Stan shrugs. “Just for the summer.”

“Super cool,” the girl says. “Do you have anyone to show you around town? We just got a mall and it’s actually pretty cool.”

Stan gestures awkwardly towards Bill, who’s looking equally as awkward with his still-unpaid-for bag of Cheetos. “I mean, I have Bill.”

The girl’s eyes leave Stan for a nanosecond, flickering over Bill’s form with her lips pressed together in a thin line. “Right. Well, my name’s Rissa. I get off in an hour if you get bored.”

“I’ll remember that,” Stan says blandly. He doesn’t really intend on taking her up on the offer, but that doesn’t stop Bill’s gaze from flaring red.

Rissa doesn’t seem to notice as she plucks the Cheetos from his hands. “That’ll be $5.99.” Bill digs the cash out of his pocket, sliding it across the counter. “Have a nice day!”

Bill flashes her what Stan can only assume is meant to be a smile, but it comes out more like a tired grimace than anything else. But if Rissa is affected at all by this, she doesn’t show it. She waves as Stan leaves, and giggles when he doesn’t turn back to return the gesture. The whole encounter is more confusing to him than anything else. But, evidently, Bill is not as entertained with the event.

“Ss-Suh-Sup-Super cc-cool,” he says as soon as they’re out in the open parking lot. Stan thinks it’s supposed to be a joke, but Bill spits the words out like they’re poison. Something about it makes the corners of his lips quirk up anyway.

“What can I say,” he spins his car keys around his finger, “I’m cool now.”

Bill rolls his eyes. “Mhm, I bb-buh-believe it.”

“Yeah, well, you better believe it,” Stan says. “Because according to Rissa I’m _super cool_.”

“Ohh yeah, bb-because Rr-Ruh-Ruh-Rissa is ss-so ss-sm-smuh-smart.”

Stan bounces his shoulder against Bill’s. “Alright, no need to be so jealous.”

“I - I’m nn-not - I’m not jj-juh-jeal-jealous-”

“But Rissa isn’t smart enough to know if I’m cool or not?”

Bill slows to a stop next to Stan’s car. He doesn’t look up at Stan as he speaks. “You ah-are cool.”

A grin spreads across Stan’s face. “Well as long as you think I’m cool.”

Something about that must get through to Bill, because the corners of his lips twitch upwards and he slips inside Stan’s car without another word. Suddenly Stan feels giddy at the thought of being alone with Bill. Like something might actually happen between them.

“You know I’m not gonna meet up with her,” Stan says as he starts the car. “Don’t you?”

Bill nods. “I kn-know.”

Stan shifts nervously. “Good. Because you’re the only person I want to spend time with right now.”

It’s so different from anything Stan - the Stan Bill remembers - would usually say that it’s almost jarring. For a moment Bill forgets he’s supposed to respond at all. All he can do is stare down at his hands, twisted together in his lap, and try not to wonder if Stan is flirting on purpose.

“How ah-are the Ll-Luh-Losers?” Bill asks.

“Good,” Stan says easily. “Ben got everyone to help him expand the clubhouse. Bev’s started making her own clothes. Eddie’s trying to beat Richie’s highscores at the arcade. Mike let us name the newborn chickens up at the farm - I named mine Dipshit.”

Bill snorts. “I would hh-huh-have expected this ff-fruh-from Rr-Ruh-Rich-Richie, but you?”

“What can I say, I’m a man of many mysteries.”

“I can ss-suh-see that.”

Stan spares a glance over at Bill. The image warms his heart, Bill’s cheeks are a rosy red and his lips are pulled up in a toothy grin. The last flickers of laughter shine in his eyes.

Stan pulls off to the side of the road before he can talk himself out of it.

“Stan?” Bill’s voice is soft, but it only makes the nerves prickling in Stan’s stomach worse.

“I have to ask you a question,” Stan says, staring straight ahead. He doesn’t wait for Bill to reply before blundering on, “Do you remember the last time we saw each other? When we were in your room?” Bill nods, though Stan doesn’t see it. “Do you remember when you kissed me?”

Bill’s breathing hitches softly. “Yes.”

Stan drums his fingers across the steering wheel. He suddenly feels incredibly small, like Bill could crush him with one word. It’s not all that different from how he used to feel when he was younger. When he was sure Bill would sneer at him and call him a fag if he found out how he really felt.

Still, he continues on, “I think about that a lot.” No answer. “I thought you were going to hate me.” Up until Bill kissed him, that’s what Stan thought. He almost felt he deserved it, to be hated by Bill. Sometimes he still thinks that. Looking at Bill now, he wonders if he does hate him. He wouldn’t blame him if he did. “But - Um - It was really nice.”

“Stan,” Bill says weakly. “Wh-What’s your pp-puh-point?”

Stan does his best not to show how stung he is by that. “I just thought - I dunno - that we should talk about it.”

“I don’t ww-wuh-wanna tt-tuh-tuh-talk about ih-it.”

“Why not?” Something about that makes Stan want to curl up inside himself. He’s spent all year thinking about Bill, thinking about their kiss. He’s spent countless nights by himself, running through fake conversations in his head exactly like this one. Except Bill’s usually less of a dick in his imagination.

“It ww-won’t change ah-any-th-th-thing.” Bill won’t look him in the eyes as he says it. Stan’s not sure if that makes it more or less insulting.

“I didn’t say it would.”

Bill shakes his head. Squeezes his eyes shut. “I jj-just don’t want to get mm-my hh-huh-hopes up.”

“Oh.” Stan stares down at the steering wheel, suddenly feeling like the most self-centered jerk in the world. “I could help you, you know. You don’t have to stay here. I can find a way to get you a plane ticket back with me-”

“It’s nn-not that ea-eas-easy, Stan.”

“It could be!”

Bill visibly deflates, shoulders slumping and head thumping back against the carseat. “You th-think I’m crazy, dd-don’t yy-yuh-you?”

“A little,” Stan admits. There’s no point in lying to him about it.

Bill picks at a hangnail. “I cc-can’t go bb-buh-buh-back to Dd-Duh-Derry.”

“I wish you would,” Stan says. “I don’t know how you expect me to just leave you here at the end of the summer.”

“I’m sorry,” Bill whispers. When Stan doesn’t reply - too caught up in what exactly that means - Bill clears his throat and continues on, “Um - Anyway, yuh-yeah, I rr-remember. I-” He squirms. “I ww-wuh-wish things huh-had turned out dd-duh-diff-differently. But,” he shrugs.

“Yeah,” Stan mumbles.

Bill must recognize the disappointment on Stan’s face because, after a moment’s hesitation, he murmurs, “I think ah-about it a ll-lot too. The kiss, I mm-mean.”

Stan stares straight ahead. Something about this conversation is tearing at his heart, pushing his emotions up his throat and forcing his eyes to mist over. For a moment he’s silent. He needs to get his emotions under control while he still can. If he fucks up this opportunity he’ll never forgive himself. “Would you wanna do it again?”

Bill nods without hesitation.

His lips are just as soft as Stan remembers. A little chapped, maybe, but soft nonetheless. They’re firm against Stan’s own lips and Bill seems to be pushing his entire body closer to Stan in response, his hands coming up to scrabble against Stan’s perfectly ironed T-Shirt until he can successfully cling to the material between his fingers.

It’s different from their first kiss. More desperate. Almost needy. Stan can hear every noise Bill makes, every whimper and whine, and it makes him a little crazy. Through the fog that clogs his brain, he realizes he needs to be _closer_ to Bill. His hands slide up the sides of Bill’s neck to gently cup his face. It’s supposed to make the moment better, but instead his fingertips brush against something wet and Stan pulls back.

“Are you alright?”

Bill nods as if he doesn’t already have tears sliding down his cheeks. But Stan doesn’t want to push, so he gently wipes away the tears with the pads of his thumbs before leaning back in his seat and restarting the car.

“I’ll take you back home.”

“Th-Than-Thank yy-yuh-you,” Bill mutters.

Stan silently offers him his hand, which Bill gratefully accepts, sliding his fingers between Stan’s and squeezing gently. It lights a fire inside Stan that he hasn’t felt in a long time. For a moment he allows himself a glimpse into a world where it could be like this all the time. He could take Bill out to wherever he wants, hold his hand as he drives home, not have to worry about Robert Gray. But it almost makes him sad to think about. Because he doesn’t really think that world will ever be his reality.

By the time he pulls back into Aunt Cynthia’s driveway, Bill’s tears have dried and his grip on Stan’s hand hasn’t waned.

“Thank yy-you,” he murmurs. “For coming ww-wuh-with me.” He hesitates, a layer of pink dusting across his cheeks. “And thuh-thank you ff-fuh-for the kiss.”

Stan laughs brightly. “You’re such a nerd.” He raises their interlocked hands to his lips, pressing soft kisses to each of Bill’s knuckles. “And now you can kiss me whenever you want.” Just to prove his point, he leans forward and pecks Bill’s lips.

For a second Bill grins, the kind of grin that makes Stan wish he had a way to freeze a moment in time and keep it in his pocket. If he could carry the joy in Bill’s face with him everywhere, he thinks his life might be just a little bit better.

But then the moment fades away, and so does Bill’s smile. “We sh-shuh-shouldn’t.”

“We’ll be careful-”

“That’s nn-not wh-what I mean,” Bill frowns. “I - I love you, Stan. I don’t ww-want anything to hh-huh-hap-happen to you.”

Cold prickles at Stan’s skin. “What do you mean?”

“Things are different now-”

“Different how?”

Bill shakes his head. “I’m ss-suh-suh-sor-sorry, Stan.”

“No, no, Bill, you _have_ to tell me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “You - You just hh-have to ff-for-forget about mm-me, it’ll be ss-suh-safe-safer.”

“This is about Rob-Robert, isn't it?” Stan glares at Bill through the fresh onslaught of tears. He doesn't have any doubt that Bill’s talking about Robert, but Stan wants to know _why_. Last time Stan heard from Bill, Robert was the greatest thing since sliced bread.

“Please,” Bill begs. “For mm-me.”

Stan shakes his head viciously. The thought only makes his panic double, chest heaving and tears rushing freely down his cheeks now. “No.”

“Stan-”

“ _No!_ Why won’t you tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”

“I cc-can’t,” Bill insists. “Stan, _pp-pl-please_. I just nn-nuh-need you to bb-be ss-suh-safe.”

“That’s not fuh-fuh-fai-air,” Stan sobs. “You’re scare-aring me.”

Bill’s face falls. His arms weave around Stan’s waist, pulling him closer despite the awkward positioning. Stan buries his face in Bill’s chest, half hoping the feeling of being engulfed in Bill would make the panic go away.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispers. “You don’t huh-have anything to bb-be worried ah-about.”

“That’s n-not true-ue! You sai-aid-”

“I kn-know, I’m ss-sor-sorry. But if we jj-just stay away fr-from each other you ww-won’t have any-anything to worry about.”

“I don’t want to sta-ay away fr-from you!” Stan shouts. He rips himself out of Bill’s arms, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes as he tries to even his breathing. “Whatever. You know what. Whatever, it’s fine. Just - Just go.”

“Stan-”

“You said you wanted to go!” Stan cries out. “So go!”

Bill looks like he’s been slapped across the face. And while Stan feels especially bad about that, he doesn’t feel bad enough to apologize or ask Bill to come back. And it’s not like Bill turns back around.

Stan can’t help but feel like his entire world has shattered around him. The kiss feels like a lifetime ago, like it happened to a completely different person. Someone less broken and more deserving of happiness.

Stan buries his face in his hands and lets another sob rip out of his throat.

-

By the time Bill wakes up the next morning Robert is nowhere to be seen. Bill doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have the house to himself, to not have to worry about wandering hands as he makes his breakfast or brushes his teeth. He has too many other things to worry about already.

He still feels sick with guilt over the night before.

Seeing Stan again had been nice. Kissing him again had been a dream come true. But dreams are never meant to last. They are fleeting moments of our imagination, meant to bring us momentary happiness that will flicker as soon as we open our eyes.

The reality is that he doesn’t live in Derry anymore, and Stan isn’t his boyfriend. He doesn't even know if he’s his friend. And while that thought shatters him, he also can’t find any reason to think it untrue. It would be selfish to think otherwise.

But he knows he loves him. And he can’t risk anything happening to someone he loves. Not again.

He’s just settled in at his desk, notebook splayed open in front of him (the cheap one he bought with his allowance money, not the fancy one Robert bought him for Christmas), when someone knocks at the front door. For a moment Bill considers pretending he’s not home. It’s most likely one of those religious groups, the ones that will force a pamphlet into Bill’s hands and talk nonstop for what feels like hours. He’s not in the mood to go through that today.

But then the person knocks again, more frantic this time. So, with a quiet groan, Bill forces himself out of his chair and across the house.

“Stan?” he says, eyes widening minutely. “Wh-What are you dd-doing huh-here?”

Stan squirms. “I wanted to talk to you. You were a dick last night.” His eyes flit past Bill, scouring the inside of the house. “Can we go somewhere else?”

“He’s nn-not hh-huh-home right now,” Bill says. “If th-that’s what yy-yuh-you’re wuh-wor-worried about.”

Stan’s shoulders visibly relax, but his fists stay clenched by his sides. Bill’s positive that if he uncurled his hands, he would find little half moon marks littering his palms, red and angry. But he doesn’t dare reach out and touch Stan. If he does, he’s scared he won’t ever be able to let go.

“When’s he gonna be home?” Stan asks.

“Not ah-any-anytime ss-suh-soon,” Bill says. “He’s at ww-work.”

Stan hesitates. Then, “Okay. Can I come in?”

And Bill knows he shouldn’t. Knows it will only make it harder for Stan to leave him behind. But something about the way Stan rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, like his nerves just can’t stay inside. “Oh-Okay.”

Having Stan inside Robert’s home is weird, like he’s watching two different worlds collide. He’s almost embarrassed of the dirty dishes in the sink and leftover laundry hung over the back of the couch. But Stan doesn’t seem to mind. He pokes around curiously, picking up various knick-knacks to examine before placing them back with meticulous accuracy.

“It doesn’t feel like you live here,” Stan says suddenly. “This feels like a showhouse or something, and you just happen to be sleeping here.”

Bill laughs dryly. “Yeah, ww-well Robert isn’t bb-buh-big on ih-in-interior design.”

Stan frowns. “What do you do while he’s at work? Just hang out here by yourself all day?”

“Ss-Some-Something like th-that,” Bill shrugs.

“Does it ever get lonely?” Even though Stan won’t meet his eyes, Bill can tell there’s no malicious intent behind the question.

“Not rr-really,” he says. “I like hh-huh-having time to mm-my-myself. It’s usually the oh-only time I can wr-write.”

Stan’s head snaps up at that. “You’re still writing?” Bill nods. “Can I read it?”

It feels just like old times, when they would curl up in the far corner of the clubhouse and disappear into their own little world, one Bill had designed specifically for them. The thought almost makes Bill smile, if it wasn’t so terrifying. “I haven’t ll-let anyone rr-ruh-read my stuff in a ll-luh-long time.”

Stan shuffles nervously from foot to foot. “Not even Robert?”

“I don’t think Robert even kn-knows I’m ss-st-still wr-writing,” Bill admits. “I don’t want to rr-ruh-risk him ss-sn-snooping.”

Stan shoves his hands in his pockets. If Bill didn't know any better, he would have thought they were shaking. “Right. Um - That makes sense. Look, about last night-”

“I’m ss-sor-sorry.”

“Yeah, I know. You said that,” Stan says coldly. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? I’m not going to leave you here or forget about you or any of that shit. So you can forget it, okay?”

“I don’t ww-want to hh-huh-have this ff-fuh-fuh-fight ah-again,” Bill mumbles.

Stan shrugs. “Then don’t argue with me.”

Bill wants to tell him it’s not that simple, it never could be that simple, but the very thought exhausts him. So he just nods, and resolves himself to breaking the news to Stan another day.

“Good,” Stan says. Then, as if to reaffirm this to himself, “Good.”

“Are you hh-hun-hungry?” Bill asks. “I can mm-make you ss-suh-some-something.”

“I’m alright,” Stan says. “I already ate. But - um - can I have some water?”

Bill nods. “Yy-Yeah. I’ll bb-be right back.”

Stan isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but watching Bill leave the room sets off a sort of panic Stan’s never felt before. He’s only in the next room, and yet it feels like he’s left him here to die. Like Robert’s going to walk through the front door at any moment and finish what he started. And no matter how hard Stan tries, he can’t get the thought out of his head. Because Robert is all over this house. It’s impossible to ignore. His shoes are placed by the door. His jacket is hung over the armchair. His jeans are crumpled at the foot of the couch.

The sight makes Stan’s skin prickle and stomach churn. He’s spent a year doing his best to forget Robert and everything he had done, and now he’s standing in his house.

But he’s holding it together, which is good. As long as he doesn’t have a complete meltdown in front of Bill, he’ll count it as a success.

“Here yy-you go.” Stan jumps, mouth open in a silent shout. Bill reaches out his free hand to steady him. “Ss-Sorry, sorry. It’s jj-just mm-muh-me.”

Stan squeezes his eyes shut. Takes a deep breath. Opens them again. “Right, sorry. Thank you.”

He takes the glass gratefully, gulping down the water like it might actually do something to calm his frazzled nerves. If he doesn’t get out of this house soon he’s going to _fucking scream_.

Bill’s fingers slip between Stan’s. Squeeze gently. “You okay?”

Stan nods. “Sorry.”

Bill shrugs, taking the glass back from Stan and setting it down on the first surface he can find. “It’s oh-okay.”

Stan watches him closely. Maybe if he stares hard enough, Bill will be able to hear his thoughts. He’ll know what Robert did and then he’ll want to come home. They can be safe. They’ll never have to deal with Robert again.

At this point Stan doesn’t even care if Robert gets arrested. All he wants is to get Bill back home.

“So you live here now?” Stan says, glancing around halfheartedly. Bill nods. He doesn’t look particularly enthralled with the idea either. “Can you show me around?”

“There’s not mm-much to ss-suh-see,” Bill says, but he starts to pull Stan further into the house anyway.

Each step feels more and more like a death sentence, like he’s marching straight into the belly of the beast. But Bill’s grip on his hand is firm and strangely comforting. A part of him is convinced nothing can hurt him while Bill is around.

All of the rooms are essentially the same. Beige, filled with the cheapest furniture money can buy, something of Robert’s strewn across the floor. The only room that doesn’t seem to have anything belonging to Robert in it is Bill’s room. Not that this fact fills Stan with confidence. There’s barely anything in the room all, and the bed is crisply made. He’s never known Bill to make his bed in his life.

“You don’t sleep in here, do you?” he asks suddenly.

Bill rounds on him, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. “Wh-What?”

Stan gestures loosely to the bed. “It’s all for show. You sleep in Robert’s room.”

For a moment Bill just stares at him. He can see the cogs turning in his head, trying to make sense of Stan’s words. For a split second, he looks the same as those photographs Robert used to show him, scared and covered in disgusting liquids. But then the moment passes and he looks the same as he did a moment ago - shockingly older.

“Let’s nn-not tt-tuh-talk about th-that,” Bill says quickly.

Stan nearly chokes on his own spit. “ _What?_ Are you fucking kidding me? You’re not even gonna deny it?” Bill shrugs. “But you won’t talk about it?”

“Wh-What ih-is there tt-to talk about?” Bill asks.

“Oh, I dunno, maybe the fact that you’re sleeping in the same bed as a psychopath every night?” Stan spits. Bill opens his mouth to defend Robert, to claim he’s _not a psychopath_ , but he quickly shuts his mouth with a quiet _click_ of his teeth.

“I dd-duh-don’t ww-want to tt-tuh-talk about ih-it,” he says instead.

Stan seems to deflate at that, shoulders sinking in on themselves. “Fine.” He lets his hand slip from Bill’s as he wanders the room. “It’s different from your room back in Derry. You haven’t decorated or anything.” Bill shrugs but otherwise doesn’t answer. “If you had written us, we could have sent some of your posters over.”

Bill cracks a small smile. “You ww-would have tt-tr-tracked me dd-duh-down.”

Stan flashes him a smile of his own, though much shakier. “I know. I thought we were playing pretend, though.”

Bill rolls his eyes. “That’s not wh-what I mm-meant, we don’t hh-huh-have to do th-that. I just dd-don’t want to tt-tuh-talk about,” he gestures awkwardly.

Stan winces. “Yeah.”

“And I dd-do have some of my ss-st-stuff in huh-here,” Bill insists. He pulls his backpack out of the closet, and while Stan isn’t really sure how much that counts he doesn’t bother to stop him.

There’s a soft look in Bill’s eyes as he pulls everything out: his old notebooks, various pens and pencils, half-crumpled photographs of the Losers. Stan picks them each up with a tenderness he’s never quite felt before. A part of him is almost jealous of the look in Photograph Stan's eye. He looks so genuinely happy here. So genuinely in love with the world. Stan misses that. He misses being able to be that carefree and to see the good around him. He misses not spending every night wondering what could have happened if the Losers had been even a couple minutes too late.

“I can get you more,” Stan says. “Pictures.” And he finds he means it this time. Whether or not Bill comes back with him, he’ll send him as many pictures as he wants.

“Really?” Bill grins. “You don’t mm-muh-mind?”

“No,” Stan says, placing the photo carefully back onto the desk. “I want to.”

Bill’s grin grows wider, and he quickly distracts himself by placing the photos back inside his bag. “Th-Thank yy-you.”

But Stan isn’t listening anymore. Because peeking out of the backpack is the face of a droopy turtle, eyes distant and sad.

Stan’s mouth goes dry, and he thinks he can hear the stuttering pattern of his heart in his ears. It’s deafening, thundering throughout the room and vibrating the walls. He wonders if Bill can hear it.

With shaky hands, he scoops the turtle out of the backpack and cradles it against his chest, fingers looping around its droopy fins like they’re a lifeline.

For a moment he feels as if he’s being transported back to that basement. He’s cold and alone and he’s going to die here. But he has a friend, and that makes it all okay.

“Ss-Stan?”

He grips Georgie the Turtle tighter. If Robert finds him with it he’ll take it away.

“Ss-St-Stan?”

He’ll snatch it right out of his arms and tear it apart with his bare hands. And then he’ll do the same to Stan. Tear him apart limb from limb with nothing but his own two hands.

“Stan!”

A hand clamps down on his shoulder.

A scream tears its way out of Stan’s throat and, without thinking, his elbow jerks up and connects with his attacker’s nose with a noise that Stan thinks might be loud enough to shake the entire world. His attacker lets out a shout, hands flying to his nose, and Stan takes the opportunity to put as much space between them as possible.

“Stay away from me,” he sneers. “Don’t touch me.”

Bill’s face falls. “Stan-”

“Stop it!” Stan shouts. “Stop it, stop it, _stop it!_ You’re not - You’re not really here. This isn’t real. I’m not - not here.” Bill takes a step closer. “I said don’t touch me!”

Bill freezes, his hands flying up to hover next to his head in a sort of mock surrender. “Ss-Sor-Sor-Sorry.”

Stan hesitates, his free hand stretched out in front of him in the hopes of being able to defend himself. “What do you want?”

“I jj-just ww-wuh-want to mm-muh-muh-make ss-sure you’re oh-okay,” Bill says gently. “P-Pl-Pl-Please, Ss-Stan.” He holds out his hand, moving slowly so as to not scare the other boy. For a moment Stan doesn’t move. Just clutches the turtle to his chest and watches with wary eyes. “Please, Stan.” He steps forward. Reaches out to interlock their hands. For a moment it seems too good to be true, and all he can do is grip Bill’s hand like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. If Bill’s bothered, he doesn’t say a word. Slowly, Stan slides his hand up Bill’s arm and onto his shoulder, as if testing out the possibility that maybe he isn’t all there.

Stan lets a sob rip out of his throat, “Bill-”

Bill takes that as his cue to gather Stan up in his arms. “Bb-Baby-” Stan lets out another muffled sob, hiding the sound in the soft fabric of Bill’s T-Shirt. “Wh-What’s wr-wrong?” Stan shakes his head. Bill squeezes him tighter. “O-Okay, you don’t hh-huh-have to tt-tuh-tuh-tell mmm-me.”

Stan does his best to just let himself be held. This is what he had wanted. Every time he cried it was Bill’s arms he wanted around him. He wanted the chance to tell him the truth, to tell him everything that had happened.

But now that he has it, he feels almost ashamed. How can he let Bill see this side of himself? The side that’s fragile and broken and, honestly, pathetic. Bill said it himself, Stan’s changed in the last year. He’s grown up, made progress. And yet here he is, sobbing his heart out in the arms of the one person he thinks he’s ever loved.

The worst part is that a year ago he wouldn’t have blinked twice at the thought of being this emotional in front of Bill.

He hates that everything’s different now. He hates feeling as if he doesn’t know Bill at all anymore. He hates the fact that he’s always holding back whenever he’s with him. He hates that he’s here _again_ , within arms reach of a psychopath.

“It was Robert,” he mumbles. And though his tears have slowed, the words are still barely audible. “He was the reason I went missing.” Stan can feel the muscles in Bill’s shoulders tense, like he’s awaiting the final blow in a fistfight. “He was mad that we - that we kissed. He said he-” He freezes, heart stuttering to a stop as he looks up at Bill. “You - You knew. Didn’t you?”

Bill opens his mouth. Shuts it again. Swallows thickly and tries again. “I ddd-didn’t know ff-ffor ss-sure.”

“But you thought…” Stan slowly extracts himself from Bill’s arms. “But you thought you knew.” Bill hesitates before nodding. “Why - Why didn’t you say any - anything? I - You-”

“I didn’t th-think it would mm-muh-make a dd-diff-difference,” Bill mumbles. “You ww-wuh-would be ss-safer away ff-fr-from me an-anyway.”

“You asshole,” Stan seethes. “I don’t want to be away from you. I want you to be safe too, why is that so hard for you to understand?”

“Bb-Because those two th-things aren’t cc-com-compatible,” Bill insists. “We can’t bb-both be ss-safe.”

“That’s not true!” Stan snaps. “You’re just too - too scared to try! Why the hell would you leave with him if you knew what he did?”

“I dd-didn’t know wh-when we ll-luh-left,” Bill admits. “I - I th-thought he was a gg-good guy.” He frowns down at his feet. “It’s a ll-long st-story.”

“I want to hear it,” Stan demands.

For a moment Bill doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even move. Then, “We didn’t ah-always live huh-huh-here. We mm-muh-moved around a little. The first pp-pl-place we stayed in was this little tt-town in Indiana. And I didn’t - I didn’t kn-know better, so I mm-made a ff-few friends. One oh-of them was this girl Mmm-Muh-Muh-Max.” His lips purse around the name, nose scrunched up and eyebrows furrowed like it’s a struggle to get it out. “And she was - we ww-were-” He flushes. “I didn’t th-think I was eh-ever going to ss-see you again. And Mmmm-Muh-Muh - She was really sweet. I told hh-her all about yy-yuh-you. And the other Ll-Luh-Losers, but mm-mostly you. It felt like sh-she uh-un-understood, in some ww-weird way. Um - But any-anyway, she ddd-dis-dis-disappeared just like y-you did. I thought I could ff-fuh-find her bb-but…”

“You couldn’t?” Stan offers quietly.

Bill shakes his head. “I ff-found her. But - But she ww-wasn’t-” He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “That’s wh-when I rr-ruh-really started to ww-wuh-won-wonder. But it was tt-too late, I couldn’t come bb-back home.”

Stan sniffles, feeling as if all the fight has suddenly left him. He stares down at Georgie the Turtle with misty eyes, fiddling with its fins as he does. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve come back home.”

“I kn-kn-know.”

Stan’s head snaps up. “Then why didn’t you?”

“It ww-wuh-wuh-wasn’t that ea-easy,” Bill says. His eyes are shiny with tears. “Even if I cc-could get Rr-Ruh-Rob-Robert to let mm-me go, I had no ww-wuh-way of getting bb-buh-buh-back to Dd-Der-Derry.”

“But you didn’t even try!” Stan feels the tears spill over as he screams, overflowing like a freshly burst dam. “You knew he took me! You thought - You thought he had killed me! And you stayed with him!”

“I didn’t hh-have ah-any-anywhere else tt-tuh-to go!” Bill shouts, and Stan can hear panic rising in his own voice. But, at the moment, he feels little to no sympathy for his friend. “And it’s nn-not like any of yy-yuh-you came ll-looking fuh-fuh-for me!”

“We didn’t know where you were!”

“I dd-duh-duh-didn’t know wh-where I ww-wuh-was ei-either!”

“We sent the police after you!”

Bill’s gaze darkens. “Bb-Buh-Buh-Butch Bbb-Bow-Bowers? All hh-he did was ffff-fuh-fuh-fuh-fuck up mm-my legs.”

Stan suddenly goes quiet. A hiccuping sob echoes through his chest. “He said he couldn’t find you.”

“Yeah, ww-well, he dd-did ff-fuh-find me,” Bill snaps. “All Rr-Robert had to do ww-wuh-was ppp-puh-puh-pay hh-him oh-off and he dd-didn’t say a ww-wuh-word. I don’t know wh-what you ww-were expecting.”

Stan keeps his eyes on Georgie the Turtle. He’s squeezing him so tight he thinks it might pop. But the thought nearly makes him burst into tears all over again, so he forces himself to release his grasp and gently runs his thumb over his stitching. As if trying to apologize.

“Robert did horrible things to me,” he whispers. “And I know - I know he did horrible things to you too. But you weren’t...you weren’t there, Bill. You didn’t see all the ways he hurt me. You didn’t see how much he liked it.” Another sob slips out of his lips, but it comes out more like a whimper. “I think you _still_ don’t know how awful he can really be. You have no idea how bloodthirsty he really is.” He finally risks looking at Bill again. The sight makes him crumble. Bill’s face is red and puffy from crying, dried tears on his cheeks and wet tears clinging to his eyelashes. Stan’s sure he doesn't look much better. “Robert gave this to you, didn’t he? The turtle?” Bill nods mutely. “It was down in the - the basement with me. I named it after Georgie because-”

“Because it ww-was Juh-Juh-Geor-Georgie’s,” Bill says weakly.

“Yeah.” Stan feels as if he has to choke the word out. “It was the only thing that kept me sane. Georgie was one of the kids there before me. Robert kept photos of him.”

Something breaks in Bill’s face. He looks completely devastated, as if his entire world is crashing around him. Stan wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. Bill said he knew Robert was behind Stan’s disappearance, but Stan thinks he had still been clinging to some hope that he had been mistaken. There’s no denying it now. “ _Wh-Whuh-What?_ ”

“He has photos of me too,” Stan continues. “And of you. He used to show them to me.”

“I rr-ruh-rem-remember the ph-ph-photos of mm-me,” Bill says desperately. “Th-They ww-wuh-were awful. I - I hh-huh-hated that cc-cam-camera. I sh-sh-should’ve ll-looked in ih-it. I could’ve - I could’ve ff-fuh-fuh-found you ss-so mm-much sooner. None of th-this would hh-have happened.”

Stan watches him spiral, too exhausted to offer any sort of helping hand. “Can I keep him?” he asks instead.

Bill rounds on him, eyes wide and terrified. “What?”

Stan holds up the turtle. “Georgie.”

“Dd-Duh-Don’t call hh-him that!” Bill snarls venomously. Stan jerks back on instinct, fingers curling tighter around Georgie. Instantly, Stan can see the regret in Bill’s eyes. “Sorry. I - I - Um - Yeah. You cc-can keep hh-huh-him.”

Stan has a feeling that’s not necessarily Bill’s first choice, that he would rather Georgie the Turtle stay safe inside his backpack. Stan supposes he can’t blame him. It’s not like Georgie was Stan’s brother. What right does he have to keep the turtle? And yet he can’t get himself to hand it back to Bill. It feels like it’s _his_. Like it was given to him.

“Thank you,” Stan whispers. “I - Um - I guess I should go.”

“I gg-guh-guess ss-so.”

Stan sniffs again. “I’m not angry with you, Bill. I’m just scared.”

Bill doesn’t respond. Instead he reaches out with one arm, snaking it around Stan’s waist and tugging him closer.

Stan falls into Bill’s arms willingly. It feels nice to be held. Feels nice to be loved, even if it’s a fragile, glass kind of love.

“Please come home,” he whispers tearfully.

But Bill never answers. Because right at that moment, the front door creaks open.

Stan nearly bursts into tears all over again.

Robert is home. Robert is in the same house as him. He can hear his footsteps. He can hear him coming closer. He can hear-

He can hear the window sliding open.

Bill shoves him forward, and a gust of hot air hits Stan in the face.

“Go,” Bill hisses.

“Bill-”

“ _Go_.”

“Billy.” Robert’s voice floats through the house, and Stan has to grasp the windowsill to steady himself. Terror surges at his heart. Knowing Robert is nearby and actually _hearing him_ are two entirely different things.

Bill gives Stan one last look, one that Stan is sure is begging him to just climb out the window and _run_ , before turning and leaving the room.

The loss of Bill is terrifying. But not as terrifying as the tone of his voice when he greets Robert. Demure and submissive, like Robert owns him.

Something about it must shock Stan’s fight or flight reflexes. Because he’s out the window and halfway to his aunt’s house before he can hear Robert’s voice a second time.

-

From the moment Robert steps into the house, he knows something is wrong. The wind had shifted ever since Bill had returned from the grocery store the night before. But something is really wrong now.

“Billy.”

There’s a shuffling from down the hall. Robert doesn’t bother going after him. Doesn’t bother calling for him again. If Bill knows what’s good for him, he’ll come all on his own.

_Be a good boy, Billy. Come to Daddy._

Sure enough, Bill slips out of his bedroom a moment later. He closes the gap between them silently, eyes wide and blue.

“I th-thuh-thuh-though you www-were at wuh-wuh-wor-work,” he says softly.

“I got off early,” Robert says dismissively. “I thought you would be happy to see me.”

“I ah-am!” Bill insists. But he squeezes his eyes shut as he says it, like he can’t bear to lie to Robert’s face.

Robert hums, low enough that it comes out sounding more like a growl. Bill moves as if to take a step backwards, but thinks better of it. _Good boy._

Robert’s fingers curl around Bill’s chin, tilting his head up until Bill’s forced to make eye contact. Until he’s exposed his throat. Once he’s satisfied, Robert relaxes his hand, cupping Bill’s cheek and caressing his cheekbone in a faux show of compassion.

“What were you doing, Billy?” He keeps his voice soft and even as he asks, hoping Bill won’t notice the insidious nature behind the question. Despite this, he can see flicks of panic light up in Bill’s eyes.

“I ww-wuh-was juh-just rrr-read-reading,” Bill murmurs.

“Yeah?” Robert’s thumb drops from Bill’s cheekbone, slipping smoothly down the skin until he reaches Bill’s lips. They part easily, and the pad of Robert’s thumb runs across Bill’s teeth.

He knows what Bill is trying to do. He knows he thinks if he keeps his jaw locked shut, that he’s defying Robert in some small way. But it doesn’t worry Robert. He knows he’ll open up eventually.

Robert pushes his thumb further into Bill’s mouth, casually trying to reach Bill’s back molars. “The short story collection I got you last Christmas?”

Instead of answering, Bill makes a sort of gagging noise in the back of his throat and tries to pull back. Robert reacts fast as lighting, his free hand grabbing a fistfull of Bill’s hair and jerking his head forward again.

“Don’t move.”

Bill makes a second, louder, gag. But doesn’t dare try to escape a second time.

Robert watches in fascination as Bill struggles to keep up the fight. His eyes are watering and there’s drool dripping down his chin, and yet he keeps his jaw shut tight.

Robert doesn’t mind the fight. He supposes it’s one of the reasons he’s kept Bill around for as long as he has. Keeps things interesting.

Robert slides his fingers back down, moving to explore the other side of Bill’s mouth.

When Bill still doesn’t open up with Robert’s thumb petting his back molar, that’s when the first sparks of rage start inside Robert’s chest. Bill isn’t supposed to win the fight. He’s not supposed to last this long.

Robert digs his nail into Bill’s gums. At first, Bill still doesn’t react. His eyes water a tad more and Robert can see his breathing hitch in pain, but he doesn’t move. Robert digs his nail in more. And more. And more.

Only when he feels the first dribble of blood on his thumb does Bill finally let out a cry of pain, unlocking his jaw and allowing Robert free entrance.

Robert grins good naturedly as he replaces his thumb with three fingers, pushing them over Bill’s tongue and as close to the back of his throat as he can reach. Bill gags again, but this time it only makes Robert laugh.

-

When Robert’s finally finished with Bill, and left him to lick up the mess, he strides into Bill’s room. Just as he suspected, the book of short stories isn’t anywhere to be seen. Still tucked safely away in Bill’s backpack. What is strange, is the window being wide open.

Bill hates bugs, and he hates the idea that they might be able to crawl in through the windows and finds their way inside the house. Because of this, he would rather sweat his ass off than risk even cracking open a window for too long. He’s always chosen to use the half-functioning fans instead.

The second thing that’s strange, is that Georgie Denbrough’s turtle is nowhere to be seen.

Bill would rather die than be separated from it. Robert knows this as a fact.

After the mishap in Indiana, Robert had taken the toy from Bill until he was sure he had learned his lesson. Bill cried and cried and cried until he made himself sick. It hurt Robert’s heart to see, but it was necessary.

And no one can say it didn’t work. Bill never tried to run away again after that.

But maybe he hadn’t learned his lesson as much as Robert had hoped. Not if he’s still sneaking people into the house.

-

The next day, Bill takes the journey to Stan’s aunt’s house. Ever since his run in with Robert the day before, he can’t stop looking over his shoulder. He knows the older man is at work. But a part of him can’t help but fear he can - somehow - see what he’s doing. That he’s going to jump out from behind one of the houses and drag Bill back home by the throat.

Bill has no doubt that if Robert did know where he was going - hell, if he knew Stan was alive at all - it wouldn’t be long before Bill found Stan’s body. He can see it now in his brain. Lifeless and dirty, covered in bruises and dried blood coming from _who knows what_. Just like-

Bill pulls himself out of that train of thought before it can go any farther. He’s not going to let it get that far.

But he needs to check on Stan. He needs to make sure he’s okay.

He finds him, just as Bill had hoped, in his bedroom, curled up in bed with his arms wrapped around the turtle and the blankets up to his chin. He sees Bill before he has the chance to knock. Which Bill is sure is a good thing, he hadn’t wanted to risk scaring Stan again.

“What are you doing here?” Stan asks in a whisper, one hand held out for Bill.

Bill takes it thankfully, and tries to scramble inside Stan’s room as gracefully as he can. “I ww-wuh-wan-wanted to mm-make sure you ww-were oh-okay.”

“I don’t know,” Stan admits. “Do you think - Do you think Robert knows I’m here? Did he hear me? Or - Or see me?”

Bill shakes his head. “Ruh-Rob-Robert dd-doesn’t know yy-yuh-you’re hh-here.”

Stan nods numbly, and doesn’t say anything more.

“I’m - I’m ss-suh-sor-sorry,” Bill mutters, staring down at his hands. “I really - I dd-didn’t know he was gg-guh-gonna be bb-back home so ss-suh-suh-soon.”

“It’s not your fault,” Stan says, voice shaky. His eyes are glued to Georgie the Turtle, fingers gliding over its soft shell. He takes a deep breath. “I should probably give this back. I - It - It wasn’t mine to take.”

Bill wants nothing more than to have the turtle back in his arms. But what good would it do him? “No, you sh-shuh-should keep it.”

Stan looks up at him with wide eyes. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s the ll-least I cc-can duh-duh-do.”

“Thank you,” Stan whispers. “I promise I’ll take good care of him.”

Bill offers him a shaky smile. “That’s ah-all I ask.”

“Georgie loved you, you know,” Stan says. His voice is still a mere whisper, but Bill feels as if he’s been punched in the gut. “I’ve been your friend since we were kids. You were always a good brother. And - And the rest of us...we loved Georgie too. I know it doesn’t compare to the grief you faced, but - but I miss him too. He was a good kid.”

Bill doesn’t bother hiding his tears. It’s Stan, he’s seen worse sides of him. But he still can’t help but feel as if he’s showing a stranger the most vulnerable part of him. “He ll-liked you too. He tt-tuh-told mm-me you were hh-his ff-fuh-fav-favorite out of all ou-our ff-fr-fruh-friends.” Stan cracks a small smile, though there’s still something sad about it. Bill peers at him, blurry through the tears. “Wh-Wh-Whuh-What was it ll-luh-like? When - When Rr-Ruh-Rob-Robert-”

“Don’t,” Stan says sharply. “I can’t - I can’t talk about it, Bill. And you don’t - you don’t want to know. It’ll only make things worse.” Bill falls silent after that. And while Stan under no means wants Bill to fight with him, the quiet makes his skin crawl. “Tell me more about Indiana.”

Bill shrugs. Picks at the blankets. “There’s nn-not muh-muh-much to tt-tuh-tell.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Bill peeks at him through his eyelashes. Stan can’t read the expression on his face, but for a moment he’s certain he won’t be getting anything. Then Bill continues, “Ww-We had only bb-buh-been staying in ch-cheap motels until we gg-got there. I don’t think Rr-Robert even planned to ss-st-stay there. But it was quiet and unassuming and th-th-there was a hh-house for ss-sale that ww-wasn’t too expensive. So,” he gestures lamely, “that’s wh-where we ended uh-up. I still - I dd-didn’t really know anything bb-back then. I think a pp-puh-part of me was ss-starting to get nervous, but I still ww-wuh-wanted to believe he was a gg-guh-good guy. I made ss-suh-some friends at the ll-local high school. I mean, th-th-they weren’t anything like the Ll-Luh-Losers. I mm-missed you guys a ll-lot. But they ww-were nice. I liked th-them.”

“And that’s where you met Max?”

Bill nods hesitantly. Stan wonders if he should be jealous, but all he feels is curiosity and something akin to sadness. So he offers Bill a tiny smile and gestures for him to go on.

“I never rr-ruh-really got oh-over you,” Bill says. “I ww-wasn’t planning on - on dd-duh-date-dating anyone. We just ss-sort of fell into it. She came ff-fr-from a bb-bad family, and I - I dunno - Rr-Robert was the closest thing I hh-had to ff-fuh-family. Everyone th-thought he was mm-muh-my dd-dad.” Stan pulls a face. “And even th-though I didn’t rr-really know anything bb-buh-back then, I think a pp-par-part of me still hated him. Even if I didn’t ww-wuh-want to admit it. I think she understood that hatred.”

“Did you tell Robert about her?” Stan asks, half terrified for the answer.

Bill shakes his head. “Nn-No. Only our ff-fr-friends knew. I didn’t - I didn’t tt-tell Ruh-Rob-Robert anything. I didn’t tell hh-huh-him about yy-you and me either.”

“He knew anyway.”

Bill’s face screws up in fury, cheeks red and eyes glassy. “Oh-Of course hh-he did.” Stan quickly reaches out with his free hand, clasping Bill’s hand and squeezing tightly. “I’m sorry.” Stan shrugs. “I - Um - Nn-No, I didn’t tell him about Mm-Muh-Max and I. But he must hh-have figured it out any-anyway. She wasn’t - She wasn’t mm-muh-muh-muh-missing for as long as yy-you were. But I - I ff-found her - her bb-buh-bod-body the day after she - she dddd-duh-died.”

“Fuck,” Stan whispers, and he feels himself go very, very cold.

Bill suddenly looks as if he’s very far away. His eyes are vacant and his mouth is half open. The hand holding Stan’s digs its nails sharply into the skin. “I buried her there.”

Stan shrinks back. _That could have been me_ . He knows it’s an awful thing to think. He knows someone died, and he knows he’s lucky to be the one to come out of it alive. He knows he should have some sympathy. But all he can think is: _That could have been me that could have been me that could have been me that could have_ -

Over and over and over again.

“I’m - I’m sorry,” he finally manages to choke out.

“That ww-wuh-was when I knew,” Bill whispers. “It ww-was all - It was tt-too much of a coincidence.” His eyes snap up, connecting with Stan’s, and Stan feels his mouth go dry. “I dd-did try to leave. After th-th-that. I wanted to cc-come back hh-huh-home. But I didn’t get vv-vuh-very far.” He shudders. “I had nn-nuh-never seen Rr-Robert that angry bb-buh-before.”

“Bill-”

“I ss-st-still ww-wuh-wuh-want to come bbb-back huh-home.”

“I can take you home-”

“No you cc-cuh-can’t!” Bill wails. The tears spill over all at once then, and great, hiccuping sobs rip out of Bill’s chest. The sight makes Stan freeze. He’s seen Bill cry before, of course he has. But something about the force of his current tears is almost terrifying. “I can’t gg-guh-go huh-huh-home! I can’t - I ccc-can’t-” Stan gathers Bill into his arms, but it does nothing to stop the tears. “He’s jj-juh-juh-just gonna fff-fuh-find me again. He’ll ff-find _you_! I can’t bbb-buh-bury you tt-too! Not - Not again!”

Hearing those words come out of Bill’s mouth chills him to the bone. “You won’t, you won’t,” he promises. “I’m safe now, remember? You got me out of the house.”

Bill’s silent for a long time, face buried in Stan’s shoulder and face ruddy with tears. Stan waits patiently as Bill’s sobs slowly dissolve into nothing more than hiccups.

“I love you,” Bill whispers.

Stan’s heart screeches to a halt in his chest. “I - Fuck - I love you too.”

Bill sniffles quietly. “You’re nn-not gonna come bb-buh-back next ss-sum-summer, are you?”

“I don’t think I can,” Stan whispers. “Not if Robert is here.”

“That’s good,” Bill murmurs. “You shuh-shuh-should stay away ff-fr-from him. Are yy-you gonna go hh-home early?”

“I don’t know,” Stan admits.

“I think you sh-should.” Bill finally pulls away from Stan, wiping away the stray tears with the heels of his palm. Stan immediately misses his warmth against him. “I’m gonna ss-st-stop vv-vuh-visiting you while you are hh-here. You shouldn’t cc-come after mm-muh-me.”

“Okay,” Stan whispers, feeling too cracked and broken to argue. A part of him thinks maybe Bill is right. Maybe there isn’t a way for both of them to be safe.

“But I - I am gg-gl-glad I saw yy-you again,” Bill says. “And that I kn-know you’re alive. I’m gonna mm-muh-miss you.”

“I’ve always missed you.” Stan can feel tears pricking at his eyes, and he squeezes them shut in a desperate attempt to will them back. “And, for the record, I never really got over you either. I meant it when I said I love you.”

Before he has the chance to open his eyes again, he feels something soft and warm against his lips. It takes him a moment to register that Bill is kissing him. But as soon as he does, he wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t make this worth it.

“I love you too,” Bill says, lips fumbling against Stan’s own. “So mm-much. I always ww-will.” He pecks Stan’s lips one last time before pulling back for good. “You’ll rr-remember that, ww-wuh-won’t you?”

Bill almost sounds like he’s begging. Begging Stan to remember that he loves him, not that he’s the reason they’re in this mess in the first place. Begging for a sort of forgiveness.

Stan nods. But by the time he opens his eyes again, Bill’s gone.

-

The next few weeks go by painfully slowly. Just as promised, he doesn’t see much of Bill in that time. He’s seen him out and about a few times, and they catch each other's eye, but they never talk. Not since that day in Aunt Cynthia’s spare bedroom.

It stings to think about. That Bill’s out there but Stan just can’t have him. Like the universe is playing some fucked up, cruel trick on him.

But life goes on.

It is strange to think, though, that Stan’s entire life came crumbling down on him and he’s just...going to the grocery store. As if nothing’s wrong. As if he’s your average, everyday highschooler.

Stan wishes that were the case.

“Hi Stan!” Rissa is the cashier again today, and she waves excitedly as Stan enters the store. “How are you? Can I help you find anything?”

“I’m just looking for some frosting,” Stan says with an awkward half smile. “My aunt wants to make cupcakes.”

Rissa giggles. “They’re right over there, near the back. Let me know if you need help. Hey, we should hang out again! That was fun last time!”

“Yeah, I’ll see what I can do,” Stan agrees. Because hanging with Rissa was fun, but it was also exhausting. The constant pressure of needing to be energetic and happy and not fucked up. It’s draining. But it was, admittedly, a little nice to spend time with someone who didn’t know about his past. It was nice to be normal again.

But all he really wants right now is to get the frosting and to get out.

As he’s standing in the back aisle - staring at all the possible frostings because his aunt is finicky about that stuff - the bell atop the entrance jingles quietly. Stan doesn’t give it much notice. It could be anyone.

He can hear footsteps a moment later. And a moment after that, the deep rumble of a voice. That’s when Stan’s skin begins to crawl.

He strains his ears, hoping to catch the voice again. He just needs to be sure it isn’t him. Just needs to be sure it isn’t Robert.

But all he hears are footsteps.

He knows he needs to run. He knows he needs to get out. But he can’t get his legs to move. They feel like jelly, wobbly and out of his control. As if they might just dissolve completely if he moves too quickly.

The footsteps are getting louder now. He can hardly hear them over the pounding of his own heart.

Maybe they won’t come in this aisle. There are a dozen other ones. What’s the chance they’ll need to come to this one? And yet they just keep getting louder.

He needs to run. He needs to get out of here. He needs to be safe. He needs-

The footsteps round the corner. But it’s Bill’s face that stares back at him, soft and kind. Stan could just about cry from relief.

Except Bill doesn’t look too happy to see him. In fact, he looks borderline terrified.

He hurries to Stan’s side as quickly as he can, grabbing both his hands in his own and tugging him closer.

“Yy-You need to gg-guh-get out of hhh-here.”

Stan’s stomach drops. “He’s - He’s here, isn’t - isn’t he?”

Bill nods. “He’s at the cc-counter. If you ww-wuh-walk along the ff-far wall, he shouldn’t ss-suh-see you.” When Stan still doesn’t move, Bill takes a hesitant step forward. “You hh-have to go before he decides to lll-look around.” Still, Stan is frozen in place. His nails bite into the gentle skin of Bill’s hands. “C’mon, Stan.”

He takes a few more steps, and finally Stan’s legs unlock. He follows Bill’s lead, feeling as if he’s in some sort of horrible, fucked up dream. The kind where you’re not really in control of yourself or your actions.

Only once they reach the exit, does Bill release Stan’s hands. Something about it snaps Stan out of his frozen state, though it leaves him feeling cold and empty.

He sends Bill a thankful look, before leaving the store and tearing ass across the parking lot. He doesn’t even care he left the frosting behind.

-

Robert’s just finishing up at the counter, a six pack in one hand, when Bill gets back.

“Were you talking to someone?” he asks. The question is innocent enough. So much so that the cashier doesn’t look up from her magazine. But he can see the way it makes Bill’s hair stand on end.

“No,” Bill says. “Who ww-wuh-would I be tt-talking to?”

Robert shrugs. “That’s what I was wondering.”

“Well, I ww-wasn’t talking to ah-any-anyone.”

“Alright,” Robert says casually. “You want more ice cream?”

“I - Uh - Yy-Yeah.”

“Why don’t you pick something out?” Robert says. “In fact, here,” he digs around for his wallet, handing Bill a small wad of cash. “Why don’t you get the groceries? I just remembered there’s something I need to finish up at home.”

Bill eyes him suspiciously. “Wh-What is it?”

Robert slips him a wide grin. “It’s a surprise.”

He’s out the door before Bill can even think about arguing.

Across the parking lot, he finds his victim. Stanley Uris is sitting in his car, forehead pressed against the steering wheel and hands gripping it firmly on either side. Even from a distance, Robert can see the way Stan’s shoulders heave with sobs.

It makes something stir inside him. He can still remember the way he made Stan cry, can still remember the way tears stained his cheeks and snot ran from his nose. Stan had been a brat, but maybe a part of him missed their days together.

He starts towards the car, walking with the sureness of someone who knows they’ll be getting their way.

It is a bit of a drag to realize Stan Uris somehow escaped him. He supposes it’s his own fault. He hadn’t bothered to wait until he was dead, hadn’t bothered to see it for himself. But who can blame him? He had been excited to start his new life, and had been positive there was no way Stan could survive with his injuries.

It’s not all bad being wrong, though. Now he gets to have fun all over again. And this time he’ll be sure not to let Stanley slip from his fingers again.

He raps his knuckles against the glass.

-

Robert’s sudden disappearance does not fill Bill with confidence. And, if he had it his way, he would have chased after him as soon as he could. But Robert had left him with a _long_ grocery list, and he knows from experience that if he forgets even one thing he’ll be in for hell. Nevermind if he forgets the whole list altogether.

The only thing that keeps him sane is that he’s sure Stanley had enough time to cross the parking lot and get in his car. There’s no way Robert could have seen him leave.

Still, he fears the anxiety pooling in his stomach is going to make him sick if he has to sit with it for another moment.

“Is that everything?” Rissa’s voice cuts through his thoughts, punctuating her question with a loud _pop_ of her bubble gum.

Bill nods jerkily. “Yeah.”

“Cool. Hey, your friend was in here not too long ago. How do you guys know each other?”

Bill blinks in surprise. “We - Uh - We were ff-fr-friends before I mm-muh-moved.” Not a complete lie.

“He’s cool,” Rissa says, picking up the next item to scan. “Maybe a little jumpy, but cool. We went out a week or two ago but he hasn’t called me back or anything since then. Is he normally like that? Ya know, hit it and run?”

“Did you ffff-fuh-fuck Stan?” Bill asks, feeling the sour taste of jealousy rise up in the back of his throat.

“No.” Rissa frowns a little. Then, leaning across the counter, “hey, can I ask you something?” Bill shrugs. “What’s up with your dad? He always comes in here but he never, like, talks to me or anything.”

“Wh-Wh-Why would he nn-need to talk tt-tuh-to you?” Bill asks blandly.

“Well - I mean - You know-”

“Rissa, are tt-tr-trying to fuck Rrr-Ro - my dd-dad?”

“Well, you know, guys our age are just so immature!” Rissa snaps. “Stan won’t even call me back. Like what the fuck is up with that? I was super nice to him too. You should have warned me that your friend was a douche.”

Bill slides her the money he owes, biting back his retort about just how much he’d love to switch places with her. “I th-thuh-thought you said he wuh-wuh-was cc-cool.”

“ _Whatever_. It doesn’t even matter.” She shoves his groceries towards him. And with all the pleasantness of an angry shark, “Have a nice day.”

“Thuh-Than-Thanks,” Bill mumbles, gathering the groceries into his arms.

The walk back home is long and dreary. Usually he doesn’t mind. He likes being alone, and he likes the precious few moments he can get outside the house. But today it only seems to infuriate him. His nerves were already fried, and Rissa only made things worse.

All he wants to do is get home, make sure Stan is safe, and go the fuck to sleep.

Unfortunately, he would not get his nap for some time.

-

It’s been just over fifteen minutes when Bill Denbrough finally returns home, arms laden with grocery bags.

He had hoped coming home would quench his anxiety, but it only made it worse. The air seems to prickle with unease. It makes the hair on the back of Bill’s neck stand on end and, all at once, he is positive something is very, _very_ Wrong.

At first he thinks what he’s hearing is laughter. The sort of hysterical laughter that’s reserved for funerals and hospital waiting rooms. The laughter that comes out only when it’s not supposed to, when you know you should be doing _anything_ but laughing, and yet you just can’t stop it.

Then, like a slap in the face, he realizes what he’s hearing is the sound of someone sobbing. Guttural, heart wrenching sobs.

He drops the grocery bags on the floor and makes a dash for the bedroom, not caring that the ice cream would melt. He doesn’t doubt that it’s already ice cream soup anyway. What harm is a few extra minutes?

He rounds the doorway, nearly tripping over his own two feet in the process. The only thing that catches him is that he literally freezes in his tracks. It feels as if all the air has been punched out of his lungs. As if someone had reached deep down through his throat and, quite literally, wrenched every last breath away from him.

Deliriously, all he can think is, _I need to put the ice cream in the freezer._

He can picture it now. Leaking out of the cap, soaking into the carpet. Staining it until it’s almost as dark as the blood stained bed sheets.

Then Stan’s head lolls towards Bill and a sort of shock sparks up his legs. He’s by his friend’s side in a flash, kneeling on the bed despite the blood that is sure to stain his jeans, and clutching his hands in his own.

“Ss-St-Stan,” he says desperately. “Stan, wh-wh-what hhh-hap-hap-happened.”

Stan opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a watery cough and a slow drool of blood. Bill curses shakily and slides his hands under Stan’s back, struggling to get him up into a sitting position. A noise escapes Stan that Bill doesn’t recognize as human, high pitched and gurgling and full of pain. It shakes him to his core.

Stan leans against him heavily as he coughs up a mouthful of blood, spitting it onto the mattress. A wad of it drips down his chin and, without thinking, Bill raises his hand to wipe it away.

He opens his mouth to ask how this could have happened - how the hell did he not give Stan enough time - but is cut off by a dangerously low voice in the doorway. “Billy. Why don’t you step away from our guest, hmm?”

Bill shakes his head vigorously. “Wh-Wh-Wh-What the hhh-huh-huh-hell did you dd-do to hh-huh-him?”

“I told you I had a surprise for you.”

“Jjj-Juh-Just let hh-him go,” Bill begs. “”He ww-wuh-wuh-won’t tell anyone wh-wh-where I am, rr-right, Stan?” Stan makes a low noise in the back of his throat. Bill takes it as a yes.

Robert narrows his eyes. “Don’t argue with me, Billy. Come over here.”

“ _No_.”

“What the hell did you just say to me?”

Robert takes a step forward, but Bill’s on his feet fast as lightning, shielding Stan’s body with his own. “I ssss-said no. I’ll ss-st-stay with yy-yuh-you, I’ll do wh-what-whatever you want. But you hh-have to let Stan go.”

Robert barks out a laugh. “You’ll do whatever I want anyway. Now get out of the way.” Bill shakes his head. “ _Billy, I swear to God. You little brat_.” Before Bill can blink, Robert is in front of him and has a hand around his throat. Bill lets out a gurgling shout as Robert yanks him forward, bringing them nearly nose to nose. “You’re so fucking ungrateful. Don’t you have any idea what I’ve done for you?”

“Don’t ppp-puh-pull that cc-cr-crap,” Bill sneers. “That’s bb-buh-buh-bull-bullshit and you kn-kn-know it.”

“That’s not what you said a year ago.” Robert grins wildly. “When you got down on your knees for me for the first time. You were so much fun back then. Now all I want to do is smack you across the mouth. Shut you up for good.”

Bill glares silently at him. From behind him, he can hear Stan hacking up another puddle of blood. Then, hoarsely, “Bill.”

Bill does his best to turn around, but Robert tightens his grip on his throat. “ _Look at me!_ ” Bill does. “Ungrateful little brat. I’ll teach you to go behind my back.”

He tosses Bill to the side like a ragdoll. Bill hits the ground, knees and elbows bumping painfully against the hardwood floor. By the time he gets his breath back, Roberts’s already hovering above Stan, eyes burning hot and wild. He whispers something Bill can’t hear, and Stan lets out a whimper that Bill _can_ hear, and Bill feels white hot fury course through his veins.

But before he can get on his feet, Robert produces a knife that looks like it could cut through flesh like hot butter, and Bill falls back on his ass.

“Rr-Robert,” he begs weakly, “Pp-Puh-Put that down.”

Stan lets out a sob and, louder than before, “Bill!”

“Pp-Pl-Please don’t hh-hur-hurt him.” Bill can feel himself getting desperate now, but he still doesn’t dare make any sudden movements. Not with that knife in Robert’s hand.

“You don’t get to call the shots around here,” Robert says. He rucks up Stan’s shirt, and the sight makes Bill’s stomach drop. The flesh is torn and ragged, skin flapping helplessly in the wind as dark blood oozes out of deep incisions. Stan tries to push him away, but Robert easily grabs both of Stan’s wrists in one hand. “Anything you want me to carve into him? Maybe your name? That’s romantic, isn’t it?” He spits out the word _romantic_ as if it’s poison on his tongue. As if it burns him to say.

“No!” Bill shrieks, and scrambles to his feet as if he’d been hit. “Don’t dd-do that! _Don’t hurt him!_ Ppp-pp-puh-puh-pluh-pluh-pluh-” Bill screws up his face, “- _Please_ don’t - don’t k-kill him.”

Robert chuckles. “I’m not gonna kill him.” He digs his thumb into a gash just below Stan’s ribcage, making him cry out like a wounded animal. “Not yet.”

Bill feels his knees go weak with terror. “No?”

“Of course not.” Robert stands suddenly, crossing the room so he’s standing before Bill. Bill feels as if the other man is a hundred feet tall. As if he could crush him with one step. “You’re gonna put on a show for him first.”

Bill’s eyes widen. “No.”

“And then you’re going to put him down.”

“No!”

Robert’s eyes flit over him. “Alright. Your choice. If you want to watch me draw out your little boyfriend’s demise for hours that’s your decision.”

“Please don’t ddd-do that,” Bill says weakly.

Robert’s hand lands on Bill’s cheek, cupping it gently and seemingly not noticing when he flinches. “If you do it I’ll let you make it as quick as you like. Would you like that?” Bill doesn’t answer. Robert digs his nails into his flesh. “I said. _Would you like that?_ ”

Bill cries out softly. “I don’t ww-wuh-wuh-want to hh-hurt him!”

“Yeah? So you want me to do it? You want to hear him scream until well into tomorrow?”

Bill shakes his head desperately. “Nnnn-No.”

“No?” Robert asks. Bill shakes his head again. “So then are you gonna do it?” Hesitantly, and with fat, hot tears rolling down his cheeks, Bill nods. “Good boy.” Robert pats his cheek roughly. “Now get on all fours.”

“No!” Bill shouts desperately. “Don’t mmm-muh-muh-make him sss-see thuh-thuh-that!”

The words have barely escaped him when the back of Robert’s hand connects with his cheek, a loud _smack_ echoing throughout the room. Unwillingly, a sob rips its way past Bill’s lips.

“Get on the bed,” Robert snarls.

Bill doesn’t argue twice. He knows the other option is the end for Stan. All he can do is buy him more time.

Numbly, as if he isn’t really in control of his own body, he walks to the bed. He kneels in front of Stan, who he can feel watching his every move, and puts a hand on either side of Stan’s keds.

He tries his best not to make eye contact with him. He doesn’t think he could bear it, seeing the hurt and terror and disgust in Stan’s eyes. But he quickly gives in. He can’t leave Stan alone in all of this.

As soon as he does, Stan subtly moves one of his feet closer to Bill’s hand. Bill curls his fingers around the toed end.

“Bill,” Stan says weakly. Bill squeezes his foot gently. “It’s okay.”

Bill hiccups out another sob. “No-”

Before he can finish that thought, the bed dips behind him. A moment later, his shirt is being disposed of carelessly onto the floor and a single hand is pushing between his shoulder blades. It pushes him down, down, down until his chest and face are pressed into the mattress, blood smearing across his skin.

Outside of his line of sight, Robert grins wickedly at Stan. “Ready to see what you’re missing, Stanny?”

-

Afterwards, Bill sits silently and watches as Robert points out Stan’s jugular. His finger drags down the vein, his other hand forcing Stan’s chin up to give Bill a better view.

Stan’s sobs hadn’t lessened. In fact, they had only gotten worse. But his eyes looked vacant and far away, as if he were already retreating far back into his own head.

“Got it?” Robert coos, as if talking to a child.

Bill nods numbly.

Robert presses the knife into Bill’s hand. It fills him with a thick, dull terror. The last time he had held a knife - one other than a kitchen knife - had been the pocket knife Ben had bought from the army store down in Portland a few years ago. But that was laughable compared to this one.

The pocket knife had been meant for nothing more than show and feeling cool. It never had to be used for anything. _This_ knife was meant for taking a life.

He shuffles closer to Stan. Robert’s hands fall away, though Bill’s free hand quickly replaces them. He grips Stan’s chin as gently as he can, trying to stop his hands from shaking as he holds him in place.

“Stan?” he murmurs, barely audible. Stan’s eyes meet his. For a moment, he seems to come back from inside his own head. His eyes are wide and bright, and Bill can see the undeniable terror inside. He lets out a shaky breath. “I love you.”

He leans forward the rest of the way, pressing his lips against Stan’s. Like hell would he let Stan go through his last moments without letting him know he loves him.

Robert, it seems, does not share this same sentiment.

He grabs Bill by the scruff of his neck, wrenching him away from Stan and off the bed completely. He lands with a _thud_ on the floor.

“You lying brat!” Robert screams. “You ungrateful little whore!” A spurt of pain across Bill’s ribs accompany Robert’s rampage, followed quickly by a sharp pain against his hip. It takes him a moment to register that it's Robert causing that pain. That it’s his foot connecting with his body. “I try to do something nice for you and this is how I get treated?” An explosion of pain across his stomach. “I should have killed him while I was waiting for you.” His hand. “Dumped his body on the front porch.” His shin. “How would you have liked that, huh?” His shoulder. “Just like your little girlfriend.” His chest. “Teach you to disobey me. You’re lucky that-”

But Bill would never find out why he was lucky. For at that very moment there’s a loud _crash_ , and suddenly it’s raining glass around him. It’s immediately followed by a _thud_ that shakes the desk drawers.

When Bill finally risks opening his eyes, he finds Robert laying only a foot away. And, when he finally gathers enough courage to look up, there’s Stan, still clutching the remains of the lampshade between his fingers. He’s covered in blood, and his face is exhausted and furious all at once, but Bill thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Clutching his ribs, he slowly gets to his feet.

“Careful,” Stan says. “The glass.” And then he collapses.

-

When Stan finally comes to, it’s to the sound of steady beeping and the smell of stale chemicals. A blinding light burns behind his eyelids. For a second, he’s sure he’s dead. He’s dead and he’s in some fucked up after life.

But, upon further inspection, it’s revealed he’s only in a hospital room. Which he supposes is second best.

It’s too exhausting to actually look around the room, so Stan just finds himself laying there, staring up at the ceiling. He counts the tiles and, when he runs out of those, counts the number of nurses and doctors he can hear rushing past.

Only once a pair of feet actually enter his room do his ears perk up. Slowly, excruciatingly, he turns his head to face them.

Aunt Cynthia gives a cry of relief at the sight of him. “Stan! You’re awake!” She rushes to his side, situating herself in the empty chair by the bed. “What happened? Why - Why didn’t you tell anyone what was going on? You know we could have sent you home.” Stan shrugs noncommittal. Aunt Cynthia sighs heavily. “You’ll be alright, Stan. You’re lucky your friend called the police when he did. The doctors said you had some pretty bad internal bleeding. And external bleeding.”

His friend. Bill. Bill had called the police. But where- “Where is Bill?”

“He’s in one of the other rooms,” Aunt Cynthia says reassuringly. “You can see him soon.”

“Okay,” Stan mumbles. He stares back at the ceiling.

“Your parents are on their way too. They should be here by tonight.”

-

As it turns out, Andrea and Donald Uris only barely make visiting hours. Stan suspects the only reason they got in at all was because of the desperate look in their eyes. The young nurse at the front must have felt too guilty to say no to them.

Andrea’s by his side faster than he can blink, gently cradling his face in her hands and pushing the hair out of his eyes. Her cheeks are tear-stained, and the sight of them makes Stan burst into fresh tears all over again.

He doesn’t bother trying to hold them back. He could never hide his tears from his mother anyway.

“Stanley,” she says softly. “Stanley, why didn’t you tell us?”

Stan shakes his head, and doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what he would say if he did.

-

The next few days are a blur. Filled with doctors and nurses who seem to want to prick and prod him every which way. His parents are by his side every second they can be, while Aunt Cynthia seems to be the designated coffee fetcher. She must feel bad it all happened under her watch, because she insists her sister and brother-in-law don’t pay her back at all.

Stan isn’t sure how long it’s been when he wakes up to Bill stretched out beside him. He looks almost peaceful as he sleeps. If it weren’t for the bruises littering his throat, Stan thinks maybe he could have forgotten about the incident entirely for a couple moments.

“Bill,” he whispers. Bill just shifts sleepily. So, louder, “ _Bill_.”

Bill blinks slowly. “Stan?” He smiles crookedly at him. “Hh-Huh-Hey.”

“Are you okay?”

Bill hums a confirmation. “Are yy-you?” Stan shrugs. It makes Bill’s good natured facade crumble. “Stan, I’m - I’m rrr-ruh-ruh-really ss-suh-sor-sorry.”

“Where’s Robert now?” Stan asks.

Bill hesitates. “I dd-don’t know.”

-

“That’s supposed to be classified information,” the doctor says, scribbling away on his clipboard.

“Please,” Stan begs.

“Is hh-he alive?”

“I’m sorry, kids.”

“Come on, Doc,” Donald says softly. “Isn’t there anything you can tell them? The boys just went through hell.”

The doctor looks between each of their faces, and sees the same lingering fear in each of their eyes. “He’s supposed to be taken into police custody later this week. If he survives. Whoever hit him over the head had good aim.”

Under the thin blankets, Bill squeezes Stan’s hand.

-

Stan’s parents make plans to take the boys back home as soon as Stan’s out of the hospital. But first Donald takes Bill back to Robert’s house, to gather the last of his things.

Bill’s silent for most of the drive, staring vacantly out the window. If it wasn’t for his fidgeting hands, Donald might not know how nervous he is at all. Even as they climb the stairs to the porch, the expression behind Bill’s eyes is absent.

He heads immediately for his bedroom, packing the little valuables he has into his backpack. An old, half filled notebook. An array of colorful pens. An old copy of _The Magician’s Nephew_ , photos of his friends pressed protectively between the pages.

He debates whether or not to bring the collection of short stories Robert bought him for a long time. It feels as if hours have gone by, but even then Donald doesn’t come in to press him for time.

Bill flips between the pages, even now careful not to rip them.

He hates anything Robert bought him. _Hates_ it. But the few books he had were always his solace. It feels wrong to leave them behind.

In the end, he brings it along. But the only clothes he brings back home are the ones he originally brought from Derry. Anything Robert bought him stays buried deep in the drawers.

He finds Donald still standing in the foyer. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and his eyes flit nervously from place to place. As if he expects his son’s kidnapper to jump out from behind any piece of furniture at any moment.

But the only other person there is Bill. Even the police that have been swarming the property for the last few days agreed to take a short break. To give the younger boy some space.

“Mm-Muh-Mis-Mister Uris?” Bill says softly. “I’m rr-really sor-sor-sorry. About wh-what happened ww-wuh-with-” He bites his tongue.

“It’s not your fault, son.”

Bill sniffles quietly, staring down at his shoes. “Did Stan tt-tuh-tell you eh-ev-everything?”

“Not yet,” Donald says patiently. “He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

Bill nods jerkily. “He - Rr-Robert - He ww-wuh-wanted me to - to bb-be the one-”

Donald must understand what he’s trying to say, because something break’s in his eyes. He reaches out towards Bill, and Bill prepares himself for the backhand he’s about to receive. But instead Donald wraps an arm around Bill’s shoulders, pulling him into a sort of half hug.

“But you didn’t,” he says softly.

Bill shakes his head, already feeling tears prick at his eyes. “I cccc-couldn’t dd-do ih-it. But hhh-he - he was gg-guh-guh-gon-” He suddenly bursts into tears, loud and hiccuping, and Donald wraps his arms around him tighter. “He ss-said he was gg-gonna hh-hur-hurt him www-wuh-worse. I ddd-duh-duh-dih-did-didn’t www-wuh-want th-th-that.”

“Hey,” Donald says firmly. Bill immediately jerks back, looking at him with wide eyes. “It’s not your fault. You saved Stan. Andrea and I are always going to owe you for that. You can’t linger on what might have happened. Because it _didn’t_ happen.”

“That ww-wuh-wasn’t mm-me,” Bill whispers. “Stan - he dd-didn’t tell you?” Donald shakes his head. “Stan ww-was the one to knock hh-huh-him out. All I dd-did was call the pp-puh-pol-police. Stan saved us.”

-

That weekend, Bill lands in Portland, Maine with the Urises. An hour later they’re in Derry, the buildings still as familiar as ever. It feels strange to be back, like he isn’t really wanted here. Like he’s trespassing into someone else’s home.

But Stan’s hand bumps gently against his own, second best to holding it, and Bill feels himself relax.

“We’ve talked to your parents,” Andrea is saying, turning in the passenger seat to look at Bill and Stan, “They want to see you.”

Bill’s stomach flips uneasily at the thought of seeing his parents again. “Okay.”

“They said you can have your old room back.” Andrea’s voice is soft and pleasant, gently soothing Bill’s nerves over. “But you can also stay with us until you feel settled again, if you like.”

Bill risks a glance over at Stan. Only to find the other boy already looking at him. “I ww-would like th-that,” he says softly. “If that’s ah-alright.”

Andrea smiles gently at him. “Of course it is.”

-

Bill hadn’t expected much for when they finally reached the Uris household. Maybe a quick dinner, a shower, and then straight to bed. To say he was exhausted was an understatement.

All in all, he had expected a quiet night.

Instead, he’s greeted with a flurry of voices. The room is buzzing with excitement and, before he can really register what’s happening, someone is throwing themselves into his arms. He smells like the pinewood deodorant from Keene’s pharmacy, and a mess of curls obscure Bill’s view. He doesn’t need to look to know that it’s Richie, clinging to him for dear life.

Despite the way his ribs protest in pain, Bill wraps his arms around Richie as tightly as he can.

“Hey, Big Bill,” Richie says, voice low enough that only Bill can hear. “I missed you.”

“I mmm-muh-muh-missed yuh-yuh-you tt-too,” Bill murmurs. “I’m sss-sorry I ww-wuh-was a dd-dick. Bbb-Bef-Before I left.”

“Forget about it,” Richie says. “I don’t even care anymore.” He pulls back from the hug, grinning wildly at Bill despite the tears brimming his eyes. He taps his nose, seemingly not noticing the way his glasses slide down. “See? Good as new.”

Bill laughs, and pushes Richie’s glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“Richie, _move over,_ ” comes the voice of Beverly Marsh. And a moment later, she’s shouldering her way past Richie, her fiery red hair coming into view. “Hey.”

Bill’s grin widens. “Hh-Hey.”

Mike appears behind Beverly, and Bill’s sure his face is going to split in half with the force of his smile.

“Hey, Bill,” he says, voice soft. “It’s good to have you back.”  
“Yeah,” Bill says. “It’s gg-good to be bb-back.” And he finds he means it.

Across the room, Eddie is doting on Stan. Ben is with them, no doubt trying to convince Eddie to relax. But Stan doesn’t look like he minds the attention.

He must notice Bill staring, because a moment later he’s suctioned himself to Bill’s side, one hand curling around Bill’s bicep and the other clutching Georgie the Turtle to his chest. Ben and Eddie follow. Bill can’t deny that it’s nice to have them all back together again.

“Are you gonna leave again?” Eddie asks, a frown tugging at his lips.

“No,” Bill says softly.

Eddie’s posture relaxes slightly. “Good.”

“We missed you,” Ben smiles.

Bill feels happiness swell up in his chest. He finds himself half terrified that it could pop at any moment, and this would all fade away. “I mm-missed you too.”

-

The Losers stay over that night, too full of excitable energy to even think about going home. But Bill can’t sleep. Not as he looks them over, strewn across Stan’s bedroom floor, covered in the blankets and sleeping bags they could find from the Urises linen cabinet. It’s all so familiar. Last time they had all slept over at Stan’s had been the time Bill had run off early with Robert. When he gave him Stan’s address.

He’s run the moment over and over again in his head. He’s sure that’s the reason Robert was able to take Stan as easily as he had. Because Bill had practically handed him over.

Stan must be thinking the same thing, because when Bill rolls over, Stan is wide awake on the other side of the bed. Bill shuffles closer, until he can tangle their legs together under the blankets.

“Hh-He’s not gonna ff-fuh-find you again,” he whispers.

Stan nods, and before Bill can talk himself out of it, he leans forward and kisses his nose. Stan moves to catch his lips in a kiss instead, one arm slipping loosely around Bill’s waist.

That’s how the Losers find them the next morning, curled together with their limbs intertwined. Bill thinks it’s the best he’s slept in over a year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! If you're one of the original readers of this fic, welcome back. And if you're a new reader, I hope you enjoyed the story.
> 
> Ever since I finished this story, a little less than a year ago, I haven't been able to get this alternate ending out of my head. I've been working on it on and off ever since. At 25.7k it's by far the longest single chapter I've written yet. There were times I didn't think it would ever see the light of day, and I can hardly believe that it's actually posted now.
> 
> If you liked this story, please feel free to check out some of my other fics. I have a few finished works, but I'm also in the middle of two wips: The Denbrough Show and I'll Tell You How We're Wrong Enough To Be Forgiven.
> 
> I truly hope you all enjoyed it! Please leave a comment, I would love to hear your thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry.
> 
> Updates might be slow, just because every chapter is really long and I'm busy with other stuff, but I promise there will be updates.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts! I appreciate whatever comments you guys leave. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Tumblr:  
> IT/Fanfic: @s-oulpunk  
> Main: @im-a-rocketman


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